


I've Got Your Letter

by AMRV_5



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: A Passionate Exchange of Letters, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Museum AU, Slow Burn, You've Got Mail AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMRV_5/pseuds/AMRV_5
Summary: Dr. Newt Geiszler's life is finally starting to fall into place. He loves his job and his coworkers, he loves his apartment, he (kind of?) loves his boyfriend, and he's got the most interesting pen pal in the world. All he wants is to finally enjoy stability a little.Too bad that Dr. Gottlieb guy is out to ruin it all.Dr. Hermann Gottlieb's life is a mess. He hates his job and his coworkers, he hates his apartment, he (kind of?) hates his boyfriend -- but at least he's got the most interesting pen pal in the world. All he wants is to learn to enjoy his life a little.Too bad that Dr. Geiszler guy keeps getting in his way.-----A Pacific Rim You've Got Mail AU
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 62
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Nn,” Newt says, squinting against a patch of sunlight that should not be spilling across his face. “Whyzzawinowpen?”

“What?” asks Frank, making unforgivably loud clanking noises by moving Things around, the exact nature of which Newt cannot be bothered to ascertain.

“Why’s the window open?” Newt asks again, eyes determinedly closed.

“It’s not.”

“Is,” Newt says, braving the brightness of the room to level a half-ass glare at his boyfriend. 

“It’s not,” Frank repeats matter-of-factly. “The curtains are open. Not the window.”

“Fucking smartass,” Newt groans, burying his face in his pillow. It’s a little drool-damp, but it beats getting his retinas seared out. 

“You know it. Anyway I was saying I’m on this beat, lately, I’m following that investor the board met with last week, and apparently it’s shaping up to be this, like, whole campaign --” 

“The newspaper board?” Newt asks into his pillow. 

“No, keep up, you were telling me about that, that GGH defense firm, the ones who were doing the donation to the museum and wanted an aerospace exhibit? Came in last Friday with the suits brigade.” Frank sets down or perhaps knocks something over - Newt’s still insistently closing his eyes against the sun, so really anything could have happened.

“Shh,” Newt says. “Sleepy.” 

“You were typing late last night,” Frank says, surprising Newt with a quick peck on the cheek. “Working?” 

“Mmnngggg,” Newt yawns intelligibly. More Stuff and additional Things clatter around in the kitchen before he hears the apartment door creak open.

“Don’t be late again. Pentecost is getting tired of your shit, I can tell,” Frank calls, and then the door shuts. 

Newt waits as the lock clicks shut, and then rolls over, pawing aside a discarded pair of boxers to get at his laptop. There’s no reason he should feel guilty about checking his messages, but still -- he doesn’t like to have Frank around when he gets to reading. He always gets asked what he’s smiling at. There’s only so many times he can claim he’s laughing at a disciplinary work memo before he gets caught. 

Not that there’s anything to get caught in. It’s just messages, after all. A friendly conversation. 

Right.

Newt taps the power button on his ancient Mac about fifty times before it deigns to inform him it’s out of battery. 

“Fuck,” he says, and plugs the thing in. He’s dressed and halfway through a mug of coffee before he hears a cheerful  _ Ping! _ from the other room. His heart skips a beat as he opens his laptop and, yep, there it is, right in the corner of his screen: You’ve Got Mail! 

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032 _

_ Re: Broderick _

_ Jealous? I hope not. Broderick is my recently acquired -- and frankly abominable -- tom cat. I’ve found Boston has a bit of a rat problem. Though I’m sure you’re well aware, being local. Do you own a cat? A dog? A series of well-placed traps, perhaps? I turn on my lights and hear significantly more of a… scattering than I can say I’m comfortable with. At the very least I’d like to know how to start charging the damned things their share of rent. _

_ Hence the cat. I thought he might scare the vermin away. That was a mistake. The dear thing catches the rats, yes, but evidently only so he can bring them to me -- quite alive -- in the middle of the night. He catches other things, too. Last night he spat up the biggest spider I’d ever seen in my life.  _

_ Tell me, does the darling think he’s being polite? Are these gifts? Or something else? Judging from your screen name, you might just know.  _

_ And there I go, breaking our rules. No career information, I know. Still. Whatever the reason, poor Broderick is useless for the rats. And yet utterly charming. This cat has already grown to hold a terrible influence over me, I’m afraid. The thing spits a veritable tarantula up two inches from my face at eleven P.M. and I’m still endeared. I think it could leave rats in my shoes every morning for the rest of my life and I’d still look at it and think ‘how delightful your triangle ears are.’ It meows and all is forgiven. _

_ Rats aside I’m finding I quite enjoy the coast. After nearly a year I can say, finally, that this is my favorite season. Fall in Boston -- there’s something special about it. The leaves, the smell, the color of the sunlight. It’s undergrad all over again. Pencil shavings and notebooks, a terrible dorm room, the worst mattress you’ve ever slept on -- all of it. Fall in Boston  indeed . Do you love it as much as I do? You must. I can tell.  _

_ Do I sound ridiculous? _

_ Do you love it?  _

_ Let me know about your cat. Or lack thereof.  _

Newt smiles, and hits  _ Reply _ . 

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy _

_ Re: Re: Broderick _

_ Lack thereof. I have a surprisingly rat free apartment. Or at least my rats are better at hiding than yours. But more on that later. Or not. We’ll see what this missive misses on the way. No outline here, no sir.  _

_ Can I just say -- (proof of principle, I do not outline, you can tell by how smooth this segue is, I mean really, would it kill the guy (read: me) to think even a little about what he’s saying (read: typing) before saying (read: typing) it? Yes.) --  _

“What’s funny?” Patrick asks, appearing in the doorway. He’s always been surprisingly stealthy for a man over six feet tall.

Hermann jumps, closing his laptop. “Ah. Sorry, darling. Didn’t realize I was laughing. Work email. You know. Just -- just someone replied all, and I do believe they meant to reply just to--” 

“Funny. Hey, I have to go, my contact at  _ Neuron _ got fired this morning, so I gotta get on finding a new one -- probably gonna be all week. Speaking of, on, on Friday, that thing downtown, make sure you’re back here and dressed by seven even if I’m late. Especially because I’m probably going to be late.” Patrick pauses to down a cup of coffee. “There’s some real staff shuffling going on, I can feel it.” 

“Ah. Downtown. You still want me to go?” 

“Promised you would,” Patrick says, shoving magazines into his bag. 

“So I did,” sighs Hermann, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. “It’s going to be abominable.” 

“God forbid you enjoy free food and conversation with your peers.” Patrick kisses him lightly. “It’s one night. Network. Make some friends.” 

Hermann gives him a tired smile. “I’ll do my best.” 

“You better,” Patrick says, sweeping out the door. 

“Yes, of course,” Hermann says, too quietly to be heard. He waits for the door to shut before pulling his laptop open. The message is, of course, right where he left it. 

_ Broderick? You named your cat Broderick? What am I saying. Of course you did. That’s so you. Re: the rats: Broderick (God, can I call him Brody? Buddy? Bucky? Ricky? Anything else?) is hunting for you. He sounds adorable. And you sound -- wait for it -- pussy whipped. Ha. Sorry. There’s a “veritable tarantula” for you. I’m the verbal version of Vbroderick (Such smooth alliteration! Who is this marvelous mystery man, you ask? What is he like? Overdegree’d, we’ll put it that way). I puke up word spiders all over other people’s apartments hoping someday somebody will like my “delightful … triangle ears” (LOL) enough to put up with it.  _

_ So far my (purely metaphorical, let’s be clear, here, there’s NO furry shit going on, okay, I was trying to do a literary thing) triangle ears must pass muster with you. I mean you keep replying to the ridiculous shit I send you, so there must be something drawing you back. What’s the STEMguy triangle ears equivalent? Prolixity? Inability to plan an email? Thorough knowledge of all the best coffee spots in Cambridge? I can’t imagine I’m nearly as nice to talk to as you are.  _

_ Full disclosure, I still smile like an idiot whenever I get that little  You’ve Got Mail notification. ‘Cause I know it’s gonna be you. And I wonder ‘what’s he going to say’? ‘What’s going on in his life?’ ‘How is he today?’ I think about all that a lot. It’s nice, knowing you’re out there, somewhere, in the same Boston fall as me. I don’t know you, I guess, not really, but I feel like I do, and I picture you watching the trees in the Common change colors and that makes me smile. _

_ And yes, of course I love it. Desperately. You know me. The important stuff, anyway. _

_ Tell Broderick I said hello.  _

________________

“Good morning!” Newt calls, pulling on his lab coat. “Any reservations today?”

“Just one this afternoon,” Tendo says, stacking glassware. “Otherwise you’re waiting on walk ins. Two o’clock you’ve got a fifth grade science class coming through. They’re doing frog life cycles.” 

“Adorable,” Newt says. “And easy. You wanna start prepping now? Or wait?” 

“Wait, probably,” Tendo says. “What’s on for this morning?” 

“Dunno. Baking soda volcanoes? Easy to reset. First demo in, what, fifteen?” 

“Yeah,” Tendo says, “but don’t expect anyone. Heard they’re reopening the dinosaur exhibit today. Not many kids are gonna pass up stegosaurus for basic chemistry.” 

“Maybe not,” Newt says, jumping up to sit on the demo table, “but they’ll be back by the end of the week. Kids love live science! Who wants to stare at a bunch of boring exhibits that you can’t touch?” 

“Adults,” Tendo says. “The museum visitors with money. Why are you smiling like that?” 

“Oh. No reason.” Newt swings his legs. “You ever miss college? You know, in the fall?”

Tendo sets down a beaker with a  _ click _ . “No. You’re being weird. Did you get laid last night?” 

“No!” Newt says, horrified. “You can’t say that in here! There’s -- kids could be in here any minute!” 

“You won’t see a single person today that you don’t employ. Dinosaurs, remember?” Tendo stares at him. “Okay, you didn’t get dicked down. Fine. What, then? Are you in love?” 

“No!” 

“Really?” 

Newt pauses. “Shit. Wait. Yes I am. I’ve got my -- I’m dating Frank. Can you get the paper mache volcano, please?”

“In a minute. Tell me what’s going on.” 

Newt hops off the table and pushes past him into the storage room. “Why is this place so damn disorganized?” 

“You’re the one in charge of inventory,” Tendo says, reaching over him to pull the paper mache volcano off a high shelf. “Stop dodging the question.” 

Newt pauses, leaning back against the shelves. 

“Fuck. Okay. Am I-- is it cheating if it’s, like, email?” 

“Depends,” Tendo says, following him back out into the demo room. “Have you fucked?” 

“Shh!” Newt buries his face in his hands. “No! Of course not! How would that even-- it’s just emails! Electronic mails!” 

“You can email pictures.” 

“No! It’s not like that. We just… talk. A lot. Every day. But I think I might have to stop. It’s getting a little…” 

“Hot? Sexy? Intense?” 

“Confusing. It’s weird. I mean it’s really, like, nothing. And it won’t turn into anything.” Newt stoops to grab some baking soda from under a table. “We have rules about it. We don’t know each other’s names, or any personal information, or even where the other lives.” 

“Mysterious. That’s hot.” Tendo hip checks him. “He could be anybody. He could be Mark.”

“What about me?” Mark says, coming in through the lab door. 

“Newt could be sexting you,” Tendo calls. 

Mark pulls on a lab coat. “I don’t think so. I’m not sexting anybody.” 

“I’m not either,” Newt says. “It seems too risky. What if somebody screenshots my cock?” 

“That happened to me once,” Mark says philosophically. “It ended up on, like, this subscription site. I got it taken down though.” 

“Good. Still weird, though. Baking soda volcanoes today, if you want to help set up.” Newt pauses. “Statistically, how many more people have seen your business than the average, do you think?” 

“You’d need to know the view count of the picture,” Tendo says. 

“I didn’t think to check,” Mark says, heading to the store room. “You need more vinegar?” 

“Yeah. Plus if you could get out some dish soap and the paper boats that’d be great.” 

“No problem.” Mark says, coming back out of storage. “I think it was like fifty clicks, if I had to ballpark.” 

“Huh. Not that many, like, relative to all internet users.” Tendo says. “I guess it depends on how we count views in real life.” 

“Only if we know how the website tracks clicks,” Newt says. “Is it every click, or every unique click?” 

“Good question.” Tendo pulls out a notepad and labels the top  _ Statistical Cock Viewings _ . “So, fifty clicks, let’s assume each of those clicks is unique. If in real life every sexual encounter with the same partner counts, then fifty isn’t, like, an insane number. But if we’re saying unique clicks are equivalent to unique partners, then each individual viewing of your cock counts as--” 

“Shut up!” Newt hisses suddenly, batting Tendo’s notepad off the table as a woman pushes through the door with three children in tow.

________________

Hermann sighs, and shifts in his seat. The museum folding chairs are hell on his back.

“I understand why you may be reluctant to pursue this course of action. But the partners believe this is the best use of our… generous donation,” Lars says, folding his hands on the table. 

“I respectfully disagree,” the museum director -- Dr. Pentecost --says. He’s a stoic, intimidating man, though Lars appears unaffected. “We believe live science demonstrations are integral to our goal of making science publicly accessible.”

Hermann privately agrees with the director, though he can’t exactly undermine his father in a public meeting. And he’s been outvoted, anyway, one to two. 

“Integral or not, they simply do not have the kind of draw you need to maintain your overhead.” Lars slides an inconspicuous manila folder towards the director. “We took the liberty of doing an in-house analysis of your cash flow. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all,” Pentecost says drily, scanning the folder’s contents. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. We’re tight on cash, and headcounts have been lower this season than average, yes, but the demo team is, relatively, very low cost to maintain. I just don’t see how we benefit from cutting the department. Kids love it, it’s inexpensive, and it’s educational.” 

Lars shoots Hermann a look. “And what do you think, Dr. Gottlieb?” 

Hermann sighs and leans forward, sliding an envelope of his own across the table. “GGH believes that it is in the museum’s best interest to cut your demonstrations department and use the vacant floorspace to expand the scope of your military aerospace collection, the design of which would be left up to the firm.” 

“And why should I do that?” Pentecost asks. 

Hermann inclines his head towards the envelope. “I think you’ll find that reason enough.” 

Pentecost, who Hermann has by this time decided is a fine, upstanding gentleman he quite admires, looks appropriately disgusted by the number of zeroes he finds scrawled on the enclosed check. “I see. This is a bribe, then?” 

“More of a suggestion,” Lars says, standing and brushing off his immaculately creased suit. “It’s aerospace and defense, Dr. Pentecost. If you care to stick your hand in our pockets, I think you’ll be quite satisfied with what you find.” 

Hermann snorts, and at Lars’ glare, abruptly devolves into a coughing fit. 

“My apologies,” Hermann says between coughs. “The pollen is really -- it’s quite disruptive to my seasonal allergies.” 

“I’m sure,” Pentecost says, watching him closely. “Until next time, gentlemen.”

Hermann nods politely and follows Lars out into the museum. As he rounds a corner, he nearly trips over a kneeling staff member in a stained labcoat.

“Dude!” says the man, who nearly drops the frog he is, for some reason, holding.

“Pardon me,” Hermann says, and steps neatly around him. 

  
________________

“Dude!” Newt says, kicking open the demo room door, holding his recaptured frog aloft triumphantly. “I almost tripped the hottest guy in the world, like, two seconds ago!” 

Tendo and the class of fifth graders stare at him, unimpressed. 

“Also I caught the frog,” he adds.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

To: MA032

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Currently I Am Feeling_

_Shocked. Appalled. Horrified._

_Seriously -- over a year in Boston. A full year in the epicenter, the patient zero city, the place that started it all, and you’ve never tried Dunkin’? Not to be a corporate shill, but c’mon. Really. Seriously. You’ve heard the slogan -- America runs on it. And so does STEMguy. God do I ever. I wear my Dunkin’ 15 proudly; I swear you could cut me open and I’d bleed iced caramel macchiato. And don’t even get me started on the doughnuts. Back in grad school (is it kosher to say I went to grad school? Is that too much information? Too late now, I guess) I got the nickname Boston Creme Filled, because, well --_

_Actually I’ve decided that story will remain my secret for now. I’m sure you understand. If I haven’t already lost your respect I think I’d like to retain it just a little while longer. The point is there’s a reason you can navigate through Boston using Dunkin’ centric directions. And the reason is that it’s delicious._

_Dunkin. Go. Ask for “iced cwaffee.” Enjoy. Become a true Bostonian. And report back -- I’ll be waiting to say I told you so._

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Re: Currently I Am Feeling_

_A sugar headache. My review of your caramel macchiato lifeblood (thank you for that horrible image) will disappoint you, I’m afraid, but I found it far too sweet. Then again I’ve always taken my coffee black. My palate, among other things, tends towards the dark and the bitter. I almost wish it didn’t -- you seem to have so much fun, enjoying the sugary parts of life. Is it drifting too much towards the synesthetic to say I picture you and expect the smell of vanilla?_

_Excuse the rambling. I, too, went to grad school. Now you know, and the balance of information is restored, and all should be well. Except I can’t help but want to know more. Where did you go to school? What did you research? I know we agreed not to say. Still, you could humor me, and at the very least tell me what you were like._

_And of course you haven’t lost my respect. How could you? By being interesting? By being fun? Though I have in the past been termed by peers as a bit repressed, I am not so far gone as to dislike someone for simply being agreeable. I find your anecdotes delightful. I find you delightful. I find your taste in coffee to be tragically less so._

Newt grins, and takes a pull from his just-sweet-enough iced coffee. _You think I’m delightful?_ , he types, then thinks better of it. And then promptly drops his phone and stares at the big, shiny, brand-new COMING SOON! sign mounted like a guillotine blade over the entrance to the demo room. 

“Tendo?” he calls, still staring. HISTORY OF AEROSPACE IN DEFENSE, reads the sign, in neon green slanty letters, like militarism is something to be excited about. Militarism that might cost Newt his job. “Sponsored by GGH,” Newt reads quietly, and curses. “Tendo?” he calls again, louder, and the man appears in the doorway. 

“Yeah, boss?” 

“You seen this?” Newt asks, gesturing towards the sign with his coffee. It’s got little cartoon planes on it. 

The big bad impending military propaganda sign, not his coffee. 

“Yeah.” Tendo sighs, then pats his bicep comfortingly. “It was a fun job while it lasted.” 

“Fuck that!” Newt says, then lowers his voice as a disapproving woman looks his way. “Fuck that. We’re not getting kicked out. It’s gotta be a misunderstanding. Maybe we’re just sharing the space for a few weeks. Like a traveling exhibit. Or maybe they want us to do, I dunno, fluid dynamic demos. You know, like, airplane shit. They’re not bumping us. Pentecost wouldn’t.” 

Tendo shrugs. “We both know we’re not pulling much traffic. Or profit.” 

Newt huffs and spins on his heel. “I’m gonna go give that son of a bitch a piece of my mind.” 

“That son of a bitch pays your salary,” Tendo reminds him, then calls, “And don’t forget you’ve got the second graders coming in in an hour! Maybe get all your swearing out sooner rather than later.” 

Newt waves him off, and turns a corner, past the entrance to the Amazing Organic Machines exhibit. GGH. He should have known the bastards’ no-strings-attached donation would, in fact, have strings attached. Big aerospace firm takes a couple of PR hits and decides they need some positive public outreach, and that gives them the idea to post up a museum exhibit about how advanced their technology is, and how much they’ve contributed to making airplanes go fast, or whatever it is they actually do. Newt can’t really be bothered to find out, exactly, because at the moment he’s pissed as hell and going to give that no-good bribe taking Pentecost a piece of his mind -- 

Newt pushes through the door to Pentecost’s office with a dramatic what-the-fuck gesture, all arms held wide in disbelief with an incredulous headshake for an extra are-you-kidding-me-man-I’m-frankly-just-disappointed-in-you twist. He holds it for a minute, because he thinks that the expression he’s making is probably ranking in the top-10 guilt inducing body language moments of all time, but when Pentecost fails to look up from his desk, he drops it and clears his throat. 

“Yes, Dr. Geiszler?” Pentecost asks, reluctantly looking away from his work. “What can I do for you today?”

Newt pauses, righteous anger leaving him slightly. He hadn’t really planned out what he wanted to say. “It’s important,” he tries. 

“Important like you want a discretionary fund for purchasing costume wigs, or important like you’ve spilled a class 7 hazardous material again?”

“Ah. Uh --” 

“Or important like you want to file a complaint about Mark forgetting to clean the waffle iron your department owns, for some reason that has never been made clear to me? Or important like you called another major donor a facist, and they want you fired? Perhaps important, like the time you borrowed the prototype of the first electric can opener to, as you put it in the report, ‘bust into a sweet can of pineapple chunks?” Pentecost stands, setting his pen down with a click. “You can understand my confusion, Dr. Geiszler, as you come here with ‘important’ discussions all the time.” 

“Yes. Right,” Newt replies weakly. Dr. Pentecost is an intimidating man, when he wants to be. “Maybe a better word would be salient.”

“That’s a direct synonym,” Pentecost says tiredly. 

“Okay. Fair. But,” Newt rallies a little, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. There’s a fuck-you huge ‘Coming Soon!’ sign, like, right above the demo room. It looks like we’re gonna get kicked and that can’t be right.” 

Pentecost sighs and rubs a hand across his face. 

“And that can’t be right,” Newt tries again, louder. 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out that way,” Pentecost says, and Newt feels the world tilt under his feet. 

“No. Oh my God.” Newt gropes blindly for a chair and half-falls into it, dropping his head into his hands. “This is not happening.” 

“I told maintenance to wait to hang the sign until I told you personally,” Pentecost says apologetically. 

“You’re firing me,” Newt says, feeling dizzy. “This is insane. You’re firing me for airplanes.” 

“You’re not being fired,” Pentecost says. “Simply… being let go. You have been an excellent employee, and your passion for the museum’s mission to bring science to the public is admirable. If we start seeing more foot traffic as a result of the new exhibit, we might be able to justify building on a new wing or auditorium, and then you could start up the For Kids demos again. But right now, we just don’t have the space, and GGH is offering significantly more money than we can afford to turn down. It’s nothing personal.” 

“Nothing personal,” Newt moans into his hands, feeling his glasses press into the bridge of his nose. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better about being unemployed.” 

“You’re not unemployed. It’ll be awhile before the new exhibit begins installation, let alone opens. It’s not as if we’re telling you to pack up your desk this second.” 

“I don’t even have a desk,” Newt despairs. “Oh God. I’m a failure. I’m an unemployed six-time doctor who doesn’t even have a desk.” 

“It’s a bit late to ask for one now,” Pentecost says. “Why don’t you get back to work and get your mind off of this for a while?” 

“GGH. What’s that even stand for?” Newt snorts. “Get Geiszler Hupset?”

“It stands for Gottlieb, Gottlieb, and Hamilton. What is ‘hupset’?” Pentecost asks. 

“Upset with an H because I can’t think of any real synonyms for laid off that start with H. I just got made redundant. Give my pun game a break,” Newt says, and heaves himself up out of the chair. “Alright. Gottlieb Gottlieb and Hamilton -- gotta love a firm that upfront about its nepotism. If you need me I’ll be crying and teaching second graders about volcanoes.” 

Except Newt doesn’t cry -- like always, the second he sees a kid get hyped about science, he feels all warm and fuzzy inside, like maybe he really isn’t a failure, if he can make just one other person out there see how amazing the world around them is. The second grade class comes and goes without incident, and the next class -- a bright eyed group of third graders -- take to the geology demonstration with an excitement that makes his heart swell. He’s just finished helping a group of the kids set up their paper mache volcanoes when he notices a familiar-looking man standing off to the side of the room. 

“Hey there,” Newt says, shuffling closer until he I.D.’s the guy as the man he almost tripped a few days ago. “I’m Dr. Geiszler.” 

“I’m, Dr., eh…” The man pauses, and taps his cane on the ground nervously. “Dr. Hermann. I’m chaperoning.” 

“Ah,” Newt says, slightly disappointed. The guy’s completely Newt’s type -- a little stuffy looking, but tall, and elegant, and very handsome. Too bad he’s probably taken. “Okay, Dr. Hermann. Your kids on a field trip?” 

“Not mine,” Hermann says, eyes flickering nervously between Newt and the floor. “My sister’s. They’re my niece and nephew -- twins.” He waves towards a group of third graders, where two nearly identical blonde kids with Hermann's narrow face and willowy build are carefully measuring out baking soda. 

“Aww, that’s adorable,” Newt says, and means it. “What a good uncle. I bet they just love you.” 

Hermann glances over and smiles, his cheeks pinking a bit. ”I hope so. I do love them. Though I spoil them atrociously.” 

“Nothing wrong with that,” Newt says. “My uncle Ilya was a total softie with me. We went to the MIT museum together probably everyday from the time I was four to the time I turned eight, all ‘cause I loved the place so much.” 

“I take it museums are your natural habitat, then?” Hermann asks. “I mean, since you’ve chosen to work in one.” 

“Of course. I tried some other stuff, but nothing’s ever stuck quite as well as this job. I just love it to pieces. I mean, I come to work every day and see the exhibits for free, I help design them, sometimes, and best of all I can do for all these kids what my uncle and my dad did for me growing up -- get them excited about how awesome science is.”

“Your family sounds lovely.” 

“Oh, they are. They’re even supportive of me working here, even though I’m not exactly pulling in the big bucks.”

“It’s an admirable job,” Hermann says quietly, half-smiling at him. 

Newt feels a stab of anger, and says darkly, “Not that it’ll matter for much longer.” 

“I’m sorry?” Hermann asks, looking surprised at the sudden shift in Newt’s tone. 

“Yeah, me too,” Newt says, tired. “It looks like I’m… getting laid off soon. This stupid fucking -- sorry, this stupid GGH firm is butting in and stealing up this space for a new exhibit. I’m not going down without a fight, but it’s probably just a matter of time ‘til I’m out.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hermann says, looking away from Newt in favor of staring hard at the floor. 

“Right?” Newt says, leaning in. It feels surprisingly good to vent. “I mean, GGH. You know what that stands for? Gottlieb, Gottlieb, and Hamilton. Ridiculous. I mean, how obvious can you make it that your whole firm is based on nepotism? Like, why don’t I just hire my rich, fratty, underachieving son, make him partner, and stick his name on the building? That definitely says “our company is founded on unimpeachable integrity” to me. Oh, shit,” Newt says, and hurries away, because a kid is trying to set off a chemical reaction on the floor. 

Behind him, out of sight, Hermann leans against the wall, and watches.

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Re: Re: Currently I Am Feeling_

_Awful. Just terrible. Do you ever get news so bad you can feel it hovering over you everywhere you go, following you around like some cartoon storm cloud, raining and thundering just above your head? I can’t say much -- it’s career related, and I’m endeavoring to stick to our rules a little more carefully -- but I can tell you that I’m thoroughly, entirely, properly devastated. Anyway._

_I’m sorry that your taste buds are incapable of fully appreciating the beauty of a genuine Boston Dunkin run. More for me, I guess, and I’ll never complain about that, though I really can’t believe you take your coffee black. Not delightful. You guessed right about me, by-the-by; I very much enjoy the ‘sugary parts of life.’ When I can get them._

_As far as collegiate STEMguy, well, picture this: short guy, platform Docs, absolute mistake of a green mullet. Guyliner, eyebrow piercing, and, uh, some other piercings too. Nothing worse than having to reach down your pants in the first E &M lab of the semester because you didn’t realize they’d ask you to remove all metal on your person. How’s that for a ‘delightful’ anecdote?_

_Ah, youth._

_Anyway (x2). It’s been a shit day. But I always feel better knowing you’re on the other side of a screen somewhere, reading whatever ridiculousness I send your way._

_How was your day? Tell me something nicer. Lie if you have to, because I could really use some cheering up._

_Or don’t. Misery loves company._

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Misery’s Company_

_Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear about your work troubles. Rest assured, you are not the only one frustrated with his job in this fine city. I could just about murder one particular coworker. I will, however, continue to stew in silent anger. It’s my patented, foolproof approach to conflict resolution._

_Collegiate STEMguy -- what an image you’ve painted. You may be surprised to learn we had a fair amount in common. I had a rather rebellious phase, in my undergrad years, and faced the E &M lab piercing rules with trepidation. Though only with my ears, thank God. _

_I wish I could say more to cheer you up. I suppose it might be heartening for you to hear the caramel drink wasn’t… the worst thing I’ve ever imbibed. Bottom three, perhaps, behind a blue curacao and iced tea mixer I tried and regretted several years back, and the time I accidentally drank paint water instead of my coffee. I’d still take the paint over the curacao. And the caramel over both._

_I hope whatever it is that’s happened at work resolves favorably. And even if it doesn’t (though it should, it must, and it will, I am certain), everything I know about you suggests you are the kind of wonderfully resilient person who will never ‘stay down,’ as they say, for long. Like dear Broderick, I sense you are the type to always land on your feet._

_Best of luck, and best wishes. Goodnight, friend -- I hope I’ve managed to cheer you somewhat._

_And if not, then bloody well let me know, and I'll endeavor to do better in the future. You deserve it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chap 2!! I wrote this chapter way faster than I anticipated, but I have a few days off so lots of time to write.... let me know if you enjoyed!!!


	3. Chapter 3

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Re: Re: Misery’s Company_

_Good question. I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it, but I’m no stranger to regret. Or something like it. I don’t think I would change much about my life, as it stands, but I find myself focusing perhaps too frequently on the might-have-beens. Missed opportunities. Lost youth. Those heat-filled summer days of my childhood, hazy with pollen and golden sun, summer holiday stretching forever and at the same time never long enough… aging incidentally. And suddenly I’m thirty-four, and hardly remember what it was I wanted out of life._

_Enough of this melancholy. Suffice to say I understand what you are feeling, what it is you mean when you say you are “stuck on life’s treadmill.” Apt metaphor, as always._

_In lighter news, dear Broderick has taken it upon himself to make alterations to one of my best suit coats. He has decided that the newest fashion ought to be one partially attached sleeve and two torn lapels. I have no clue how he managed it. Or why he seems so proud of his sartorial undertakings. No matter. If the idea makes you laugh as much as I, one sacrificed jacket is a small price to pay._

_Wishing you the best._

  
  


“Ready yet?” Frank calls from the other room.

“Almost,” Newt says, and straightens his plain green tie -- the third choice of the night, as Frank had automatically vetoed his first picks for being “garish” and having “too much lizard embroidery” -- in the mirror. His hair is slicked back carefully, his beard newly trimmed, a tasteful amount of eyeliner makes the green in his eyes pop, and yet… 

“Do I look ridiculous?” he asks Frank, wandering into the next room. 

Frank gives him a blank stare. 

“Well?” he asks, and does a spin. “Be honest. In my opinion I look like I went to Wall Street after dark and got bitten by a stockbroker.” 

“Suit’s a little small,” Frank observes correctly, barely looking up from the book he’s reading. 

“Yeah, haven’t really needed one since I was, uh, twenty-five? Six? Point is it’s old.” Newt pats his hair nervously. It makes a less-than-reassuring _crunch_ noise, and he wonders if he put in too much gel. “I feel professional. Not in a good way. I can’t take serious-me seriously.” 

“But investors might,” Frank observes correctly, and infuriatingly, for the second time. “What’s more important to you, a lizard tie or keeping your job? If you want to pull donations and screw GGH, the rich bastards, you’re going to need other rich bastards to like you.”

“I guess,” Newt says, and fiddles with his cuffs. “And you can help introduce me to some people?” 

“I’ll be doing much more than that, believe me. This is exactly the kind of thing I’ve been writing about in my column for ages, you know, these huge firms swooping in and pushing the little guys out of the way, throwing money at all their problems, totally corrupt--” 

“Right,” Newt says. He agrees with his boyfriend, of course he does, GGH are completely screwing over his life -- but it is his life, and he’s getting a little tired of hearing his own problems as a potential newspaper write-up. “I forgot to send an email, but I’ll be ready to go in a sec.” 

Ignoring Frank’s exasperated “We’re already late!” Newt leans over his laptop and begins to type. 

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Re: Re: Re: Misery’s Company_

_It sounds like you have an up-and-coming tailor on your hands. You better foster his talent. Send him to art school, take out student loans in his name, the whole nine yards. You named him Broderick, so really, it’s the least you could do to atone. No, I’m not over his name yet. Likely never will be._

_In all seriousness (I hate this phrase, like, so much. When did we all collectively decide humor is something we have to qualify, brush aside, ignore? I am starting this paragraph over). In all silliness, humor, lack of gravitas, immaturity, ridiculousness etc: My sincerest condolences for your suit. That is, if you liked it -- you said ‘best,’ not ‘favorite,’ I notice. If you hated it, despite its apparent niceness, I applaud Broderick for his perspicacity. I had to dig mine out (suit, not insightful cat) for the first time in, like, a literal decade (see earlier comment about despising unnecessary seriousness) and the less said about that the better. Ravaged not by an aspiring cat-haberdasher, but the passing of time. Since when was I thirty-five?_

_I thought I knew what I wanted. Had what I wanted. But now I’m right back to where I’ve been all my life -- trying to find my balance on shifting sand._

_Oh well. You and me both, I guess. You can ask yourself “How did I get here?” as long as you want, and wonder how it is you let the days go by, how it is you let the water hold you down, but ultimately -- it is your beautiful house, your beautiful wife, and your large automobile, nobody else’s. Same as it ever was._

_Heh. I hope you like the Talking Heads._

_If not, please disregard the last paragraph until you develop taste._

  
  


“Idiot,” Hermann says fondly, and waves off Patrick’s questioning glance. He pockets his phone as the elevator dings open. The room he walks into is spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over Boston, lit up and glittering against the night sky. People mill around and cluster together, men in their dark suits a flat background for the women in their shimmering, technicolor cocktail wear. 

Hermann tugs self-consciously at his suit jacket. “How long are you planning on staying?” he asks. 

Patrick looks at him like he’s just threatened to spike the punch bowl. “As long as it’s fun,” he says, and half-drags Hermann towards a group of strangers. 

“Patrick!” calls one of the strangers, a tall, thin woman in a bright green dress. “We’ve been waiting for you.” 

“Took you long enough,” says a man standing beside her. “You get lost?” 

“Nah,” Patrick says, hooking an arm over Hermann’s shoulders. “Took a little convincing to get this one out of the house.” 

Hermann sighs and tunes out of the conversation. Patrick is telling the truth; he hadn’t wanted to come to the party, and not just because he generally dislikes social gatherings on principle. This particular party is, as he’s well aware, geared towards those involved in museum studies and publishing. He’s not exactly a friendly face to more than a few local museum staff, and his presence at their party… it’s an invasion into a private social circle he’d much rather leave to its own devices. 

He watches as a man across the room glances past him and then double takes. He leans over and whispers to his companion, who then turns to stare at Hermann. He looks hostile.

Wonderful.

“Get me a drink, would you?” Patrick says, abruptly dragging Hermann out of his thoughts. 

“Of course,” he answers reflexively, then kicks himself. The last thing he wants to be is alone at this party. 

Patrick senses his hesitation and gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be waiting right here when you get back.” 

“Right,” Hermann says, and wanders off towards the drink table, fighting his way half-heartedly through the crowd of Boston glitterati. He catches a few ankles with his cane out of spite. Not that any of these people have done anything to him. He’s the one threatening jobs, ruining careers, hurting people like that -- oh, what was his name? Geyser? Gesster? 

“Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says triumphantly, pleased that he’s remembered the name. What he does not expect is the man next to him at the drink table to turn around and smile. 

“That’s my name,” the man -- Dr. Geiszler -- says, then smiles wider. “Hey! I remember you! Dr. Uncle Hermann, with the twins. How are they?” 

“Good,” Hermann says, caught off-guard. “Good. They’re -- they quite enjoyed the presentation you did. They wouldn’t stop talking you up on the drive home.” 

Dr. Geiszler presses a hand to his heart, creasing his ill-fitting suit. He’s really quite attractive, now that Hermann has a chance to look at him. Short and well-built, pleasingly soft around the edges, with intelligent green eyes. A little scruffy, yes, but not sloppy, and his smile -- Hermann finds himself smiling back. It’s a contagious grin. 

“Adorable,” Dr. Geiszler says. “Freaking adorable. Well, tell them Dr. Geiszler says science is cool, school is fun, and teachers don’t know everything.” His green eyes twinkle, and he says, almost flirtatiously, “So tell me. What was your favorite part of the museum, Mr. Dr. Uncle Hermann?”

“Ah. Eh. Well,” Hermann starts, blushing, and then someone coming up behind Dr. Geiszler locks eyes with him. 

“Hey, aren’t you--” the man asks, and Hermann panics. 

“Yes well quite a pleasure to meet you Dr. Geiszler until next time,” Hermann says, fumbling to get a grip on Patrick’s drink as he speeds away into the throng of partygoers. 

\---

“Bye,” Newt calls after Dr. Uncle Hermann, hottie extraordinaire, as he vanishes into the party. 

“Oh my God,” Frank says, coming up behind him. “Do you know that guy?” 

“Kinda,” Newt says, popping a mozzarella stick into his mouth. It burns his mouth a little, and he hyperventilates around it for a few seconds before swallowing. 

Frank gives him a long look. “That was professional.” 

Newt rolls his eyes, going for another mozz stick. 

“I’m serious, though. Do you know him?” 

“Just some guy who came to the demo with some kids this week,” Newt says around a mouthful of molten cheese. “I guess he might be a donor or something if he’s here.” 

“Newt,” Frank says, grabbing Newt’s hand before he goes for a third mozz stick. “That’s Hermann--” 

“Yeah, I know his name,” Newt says, pulling his hand free and acquiring yet another mozz stick. God bless the Italians. Fried cheese -- there’s really nothing greater on Earth than that. 

“Hermann Gottlieb,” Frank finishes.

“Gottlieb,” Newt says, dread suddenly filling his gut where there had just been melted cheese. “Gottlieb as in Gottlieb, Gottlieb, and Hamilton?” 

“That’s the one,” Frank confirms, and Newt drops his mozz stick onto the fancy hardwood. 

Newt pushes through the crowd of partygoers until he finds Dr. Gottlieb -- stupid, hot, tall Dr. Gottlieb with his stupid life-ruining company -- leaning against the wall. 

“Your last name is Gottlieb?” he demands. 

Dr. Gottlieb jumps. “Ah. Yes,” he says. “That’s me. Dr. Hermann Gottlieb.” 

“Gottlieb as in GGH? As in the firm that’s getting me fired?” 

“Yes,” Hermann says, slower. “That’s me.” 

“You’re running my life,” Newt says, feeling heat rise to his face. “You’re actually ruining my life.” 

“Well, it’s more my father,” Dr. Gottlieb says, fidgeting with his cane. “He’s the other Gottlieb--” 

“Oh yeah. Sure. Blame it all on dad. Since he got you the job and all. Did he get you your doctorate too? Did you achieve anything on your own at all, Doctor, or has daddy given you everything on a silver platter?” Newt runs a hand across his mouth and shakes his head. “Are you even an uncle? Did you actually know those two kids? Or did you just sneak in on a demo to spy on me?” 

“Why would I spy on you?” Dr. Gottlieb asks, genuinely incredulous, and stands straighter. He has a few inches on Newt when he stands upright, and Newt bristles, puffing his chest out and glaring up at the bastard.

“Because I’m apparently the only person in the way of your idiot company getting what it wants!” Newt half-shouts, and a few people turn to look. “Which is to take science away from little kids! Why don’t you and daddy go and defund some elementary schools, you professional dickhead?” 

Dr. Dicklieb’s eyes go steely. “Maybe I will,” he snarls, “if you think that’s what would improve their education. God knows you weren’t doing much, puttering around, making baking soda volcanoes and showing off frogs like some overgrown middle schooler. What were they actually getting out of your demos, Dr. Geiszler? Hm?” Hermann advances a step, and Newt falls back. “What were those children actually learning? Nothing, I’d wager, or next to nothing, seeing as all you focus on is some idiotic notion like education should be fun.” 

“It should be,” Newt starts, then stops. 

“It shouldn’t,” Hermann continues, apparently taking his silence as encouragement. “Sure, it can be, but eventually, everyone reaches a point where learning -- education, a career, a goal, a degree, whatever it is -- becomes tedious. Boring. And they need to be prepared for that day, because it will come, and when it does, you either struggle through and end up successful, like me,” Hermann growls, and leans down so he’s eye to eye with Newt, “or you give up and become a washed-out thirty-something with a doctorate doing petty tricks that can hardly be called science for the amusement of children.” 

Newt’s face feels hot. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes. 

“What?” Hermann asks, leaning back. “Nothing to say to that?” 

Newt shakes his head, and wills himself not to start crying. Eyeliner, eyeliner, don’t mess up your eyeliner, he chants internally, struggling to blink away tears. 

“Hi, I’m Frank Navasky,” Frank says, appearing behind Newt. 

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” Dr. Gottlieb says, and offers his hand. 

“Right, I know who you are,” Frank says. “Gottlieb of GGH. Believe me I know who you are. A partner of GGH -- look, how do you sleep at night?” 

“Xanax,” a tall, muscular man says, appearing at Dr. Gottlieb’s side. “I’m Patrick. And you’re Frank Navasky, right? Of the Independent? I love your column--” 

Frank and Patrick -- who appears to be Dr. Gottlieb’s acquaintance -- launch into a conversation about something in the journalism world. It flies over Newt’s head, and Dr. Gottlieb’s too, by the look of it. “I’m gonna go home,” he announces vaguely, voice definitely firm and calm and not at all shaky and sad. 

“Okay,” Frank says, and gives him a little wave, before turning back to Patrick. “As I was saying about last week’s --” 

Newt puts his head down and heads for the elevator, wiping a stray tear off his cheek. 

  
  


_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: How Did I Get Here?_

_I am familiar with the Talking Heads. And I do find myself asking “how did I get here?” “Am I right? Am I wrong?” and even “My God -- what have I done?” Just today -- No. I can’t type it. I am burning with shame thinking of it even now. No details, only this: Have you ever become the absolute worst version of yourself? Felt the ugliest parts of you -- your rage, your condescension, your spite, your arrogance -- rise up and boil over? One small provocation, something I could have easily walked away from, and instead I become someone I hardly recognize. Or someone I wish I couldn’t recognize. I go from restrained, polite, unassuming, to spouting off the worst, most cutting things I can think of, all because some poor soul has caught me off at the wrong time._

_I can’t imagine you know what this is like. You seem far too genial._

_I am having a terrible night._

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Re: How Did I Get Here?_

_I, too, am having a terrible night. Look at us, just two guys having shit times._

_Re: bitching people out: God I’m jealous. Completely jealous. I talk a big game, but when push comes to shove I just -- clam up. Sometimes I can say something clever, a good line or two here and there, but inevitably the worst happens -- I just tear up._

_Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing. I know it’s not very macho. I’m a little sensitive, get over it. Whether it’s frustration or anger or sadness -- whatever, I can’t help but get a little teary when I’m arguing. It’s humiliating. And then of course I have to either yell while sniffling and wiping my face every two seconds or walk away and spend all night fixating on just what it is I should have said, or wish I had the courage to say. I’d trade you in a second, lucky bastard._

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Re: Re: How Did I Get Here?_

_Wouldn’t it be nice if it worked that way? I could take your restraint and go along my merry way, never being terrible, and you could take my lack of control and be just as awful as you pleased, and we’d both be perfectly happy._

_Still I must warn you that being able to say whatever you like whenever you’d like to say it almost always leads to regret. You hurt the people around you, ones you care about, or want to get to know, or don’t know at all, indiscriminately. There’s no back button, no delete key, for saying these things. Just guilt. Disappointment. Regret._

_There’s that word again, regret, and I’m starting to get sick of it popping up in our conversations. Alright. Its presence is noted, recorded, and despised. No regrets, I say, not from this point on, not between us, and so I’ll endeavor to clear one up preemptively:_

_Shall we meet?_

Newt smothers a gasp and slams his laptop shut. 

Meet?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!!!!! This was a really fun chapter, but poor Newt.......... it had to happen, though, or else no enemies to friends to lovers.....


	4. Chapter 4

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: Re: Re: Re: How Did I Get Here?  _

_ Meet?????????????  _

_ Uh. _

_ It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, but… I don’t think it’s a good idea. My life is kind of falling apart at the seams. Things in STEMguy’s day-to-day are, as the kids say, ‘wack.’ But I know as long as my terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad real life never intersects with yours, this little online space we built together can stay safe and sound, separate from all that.  _

_ I mean, we’ve got a great thing going here. How often do you get to know someone -- really know them, I mean -- and yet remain completely anonymous? What if we meet, and you think I’m the ugliest person you’ve ever seen in your life and you never want to email me again, knowing my ugly mug is on the other side of the screen? What if you are so deeply put off by my (terrible) fashion sense you don’t even stop to say hello? Or, worst of all, what if you just don’t like me? STEMguy on paper is, admittedly, much more eloquent than he is in person. I have been told I am a lot to deal with.  _

_ I like what we have. I’d never forgive myself if I messed it up.  _

_ Sorry. I hope you understand.  _

_ Please don’t ask again.  _

\-----

Newt dodges a new “Coming Soon!” sign -- it’s been over a month since the first one’s fateful arrival, and the December air carries an ominous chill that can’t be entirely chalked up to cold weather -- and wanders into the demo room. “Hey,” he calls to Tendo, who is lying across a table, eyes closed, like a cadaver. 

“Dark,” Newt says to himself. “Out late last night?” he asks, setting a cup of steaming coffee down next to Tendo’s hip. 

“Nope. Just napping. No reservations today.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. None. Zero.” Tendo cracks an eyelid and stares at Newt. “Nobody came in over the weekend either. That makes five full days of nobody.” 

“Just a quiet few days,” Newt says. “Completely normal. It happens all the time.” 

“People don’t even know we’re back here anymore. Y’know, with all the signs up. It looks like we’re already under renovation.” Tendo half sits up to take a sip of coffee, then lies back down. “It’s just a matter of time.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“It’s the truth.” 

“No. We’ll be around until the last minute. Pentecost said. And once they finish setting up God’s Gift to Airplanes or whatever, I’m sure they’ll have us back in as soon as they possibly can.” Newt busies himself with cleaning off a chalkboard. “I’m telling you. People love us, they won’t kick us permanently.” 

“What people? Nobody else is here.” 

“People love us,” Newt repeats, and perks up when the door swings open. “Hello!” he calls, and then deflates immediately. “Oh. Hi, Mark.” 

“Hey, man. Quiet around here the last few days.” 

“So I heard,” Newt says glumly. “But I’m sure business will pick up.” 

“I dunno. Nobody even knows we’re here anymore.” Mark jumps up to sit on a table. “No PR. It reminds me of this, uh, what do you call it. The thing where people write up their opinions and send it in to a newspaper and the paper publishes it? And some people have, like, a permanent one?” 

“A column,” Newt supplies. 

“Right, this column. By this total fanatic in the  _ Independent _ , you know, one of those big-time the industrial revolution ruined humanity kind of guys. He’s always writing about how big corporations are screwing over the little guy.” Mark rubs his eye and then says, “Navasky! That’s his name! Anyway. You should write him a letter about what’s going on. He might be able to get the word out about us.” 

“Navasky,” Tendo says, and sits up fully. “Holy shit. Newt. Aren’t you dating a Navasky? Frank Navasky?” 

“That’s him!” Mark says, and jumps up. “Oh my god! It’s perfect. Newt, you have to get him to do a column about the museum. Tell people how GGH is totally stepping all over us.” 

“I guess,” Newt says doubtfully. “But what would it do? Besides piss off Pentecost.” 

“Publicity!” Mark crows, and hops back onto his table. “Free publicity!” 

“But we have no cast,” Tendo quips under his breath. 

Newt holds up his work binder in warning. “I guarantee the no-Broadway rule is still written in here somewhere. Don’t make me dig it out.” 

Mark waves away the binder. “Look. We need people to know we’re here, and what better way to do it than this?” 

“All publicity is good publicity,” Newt says, warming to the idea. “I guess I could ask him tonight. It seems kind of underhanded, though. Doesn’t it? Mean, kind of? Running a negative press campaign?” 

“Can’t hurt to ask,” Mark says. “Find out what the guy would write, if he was going to do a column on it.” 

“I just hope that it doesn’t bring that Gottlieb jerk out of the woodwork,” Newt says. “I never want to talk to that guy again.”

  
  
  


The universe, apparently out to spite Newt specifically, has other plans. He’s out at the corner store, picking up dinner (microwave pizza bagels, because it’s been a long day full of zero museum visitors, and he’s tired, and kind of a disaster, and actually if he wants to buy microwave pizza bagels he absolutely can without having to justify it, because he is an adult with disposable income, and he can have whatever he goddamn pleases for dinner) when he runs into the last guy on Earth he wants to see. Literally. One moment he’s looking at the label on the back of his bagels, thinking,  _ Hey, isn’t ammonium chloride a diuretic? _ , and the next he’s landing hard on his ass and looking up into the less-than-impressed face of one Dr. Hermann “Professional Dickweed” Gottlieb. 

“You,” Newt says, eloquently. 

“Me,” Dr. Gottlieb replies, and offers a hand that Newt instinctively bats away with a box of pizza bagels. Dr. Gottlieb looks, somehow, even less impressed. 

“You’re stalking me,” Newt says, pushing himself to his feet and wishing that he’d decided to wear something besides an ancient Science Olympiad tee and ratty sweatpants. He feels comically underdressed besides Dr. Gottlieb in his full suit. 

“Yes,” Dr. Gottlieb answers drily. “I’m stalking you. I thought long and hard about my life and decided the best use of my extremely precious free time is to follow a terrible little man I met over a month ago to the grocery store. I can’t imagine anything more scintillating than watching you purchase microwaveable dinners.” 

Newt looks at him. “Okay. Whatever. Later, dude.” He pushes past Dr. Gottlieb and into the next aisle. He needs peanut butter. Peanut butter, which is… right… there. Right. He stops and runs his hand through his hair, considering. There’s the crunchy kind, ew, and the organic one that always separates in the cabinet, the kind with the jelly already mixed in, also ew, and… 

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he turns around to see Dr. Gottlieb standing behind him. Staring. 

“Oh, goddamnit. What?” Newt demands, throwing his arms wide. He narrowly avoids knocking over a bread display. 

“I’m waiting for you to move,” Gottlieb says calmly. And dickishly. “You’re certainly taking a while to choose a variety of peanut butter. Is this one of the more important decisions you’re tasked with making on a day-to-day basis?” 

Newt huffs, and then scoffs, and then huffs again. No clever one-liners come to mind, so he turns silently back to consider the peanut butter shelf. 

“Oh, yes. Good. Take your time,” Gottlieb says. “Lucky thing nobody else is waiting on you.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Newt says to the shelf of Generic Brand Hazelnut Spread, “can’t you just go to another aisle?” 

“No,” Gottlieb answers primly. “I have a very precisely delineated route through the store. It would be inefficient to leave now and backtrack later.” 

“More inefficient than standing there?” Newt asks the PB Mallow Swirl jar. 

“Yes,” Gottlieb says, apparently content to continue standing behind Newt. 

“Jesus. Fine,” Newt says, and steps back, bowing dramatically and waving towards the shelf. “Your peanut butter awaits you, Your Royal Impatience.” 

Dr. Gottlieb, now intent on choosing his own PB, does not dignify him with a response. 

“Of course you’re a chunky peanut butter person,” Newt says, watching disgustedly, and then turns and walks away. 

“The texture is better,” Gottlieb says distantly, but Newt is already in line at a register, like a normal person who does not stalk other people through grocery stores. Unfortunately the line he has chosen ends up moving at molasses speed, so by the time he’s to the counter Dr. Gottlieb is there too. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gottlieb says. Newt ignores him in favor of handing the store clerk his reusable bag, and then his card. 

“Cash only,” the clerk says, and hands his card back. 

“What?” 

“He said it’s cash only,” Dr. Gottlieb helpfully supplies from the other line.

“Uh…” Newt digs around in his wallet. “Shit. I don’t have any cash. Is card okay?” 

“No,” the clerk says, and points to an admittedly very prominent sign on the wall that reads  _ Cash Only _ . “It’s cash only.” 

“Really?” Newt asks, looking in his wallet again. “Uh. I don’t--” 

“It’s cash only!” the man behind him in line says. “You don’t have cash?” 

“I don’t have cash,” Newt confirms, and feels his face heat up when Dr. Gottlieb audibly snorts from the other line.

“He doesn’t have cash,” says a different voice, and then the whole line is muttering impatiently and cursing at Newt under their breath. 

“Man, it’s six dollars, and I can see a card scanner right there, dude,” Newt says, increasingly stressed. “You took my card literally four days ago. I never bring cash here. Why is this an issue now?” 

“Because now it’s cash only.” 

"Since when?" 

"Since today." 

"And there's no grace period? No warning? No -- no consideration for the common man who does not have cash on him at the moment?" 

"Cash only," the clerk repeats.

“Cash only!” Newt tucks his wallet away and grabs his empty bag. “Okay. Okay! Cash only! Cash -- yeah! Okay! Okay. Fucking great. This is really -- this is absolutely my day. I’m having the greatest twenty four hours of my life right now. Sure, cash only. Fine. Fine.” He moves to get out of line, pizza bagels be damned, when Dr. Gottlieb grabs his arm. 

“I’ve got it,” he says, and slaps a crisp ten onto the counter. 

Newt stares at him, jaw hanging open. 

“Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies,” Gottlieb says, and hands him his groceries. And then the four dollars of change. “Best take this. In case you have any other...” the man pauses, and looks critically at the boxes of pizza bagels Newt is now clutching to his chest. “...Important purchases to make.” 

“You are infuriating,” Newt says, reaching up to tug at his hair. 

“Correct. Happy holidays.” With that, Dr. Gottlieb walks off and out into the night.

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA _

_ AAAA! AAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAA! FUCK!  _

_ Okay. Now that that’s out of my system -- FUCK! Have you ever met someone who makes you want to tear your hair out? Somebody who infuriates you to the point of public screaming? Somebody whose very existence is enough to enrage you beyond all reasonable measure? I never thought I’d say, as an adult, that I have a nemesis, but I do! I have a genuine Lex Luthor in my life! And his horrible smug personality is my kryptonite. Ugh! _

_ I’m so peeved I can’t even focus on the holidays, which, hello. Best part of the year. I can’t wait for it to snow. It always reminds me of coming home after grade school -- I’d play in the snow for hours, and when I finally got too cold I’d run inside and my dad would be there waiting with a cup of cocoa and a warm blanket. I kind of feel bad for kids who didn’t grow up where it snows every winter, but I guess they’d probably feel bad for me, too. Like, look at this poor schmuck. He knows nothing about… I don’t know, how it feels to bury your feet in sun-warmed sand. Or something.  _

_ Point is, I love the winter. It’s beautiful and reminds me of happy times. What about you? Any good winter memories?  _

_ I wanted to end it there but -- ugh. Seriously ugh. I am infuriated. I think I need some advice.  _

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Re: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA _

_ I love the winter, too. It reminds me of my mother. She died when I was very young, but my memories of her are clearest around the holidays. Making cookies together, little snowball fights, having my winter boots tied for me on the way to school… I find I miss her more in the winter, when I am curled up inside with a hot drink, watching the snow come down and feeling nostalgic. Everyone calls their mothers beautiful -- mine truly was. Inside and out.  _

_ My father less so. This brings us to the topic of tolerating unpleasant people. Is this what you need advice on? Or something else? How can I help?  _

Newt, tucked into a pile of blankets with a mug of tea, isn’t quite sure how to respond. How to explain the utter ridiculousness of his situation at the museum, and with Dr. Gottlieb, without revealing anything personal? It seems impossible. Though maybe if he -- 

His computer  _ dings _ cheerfully, informing him of an instant message from MA032.

“Um… What?” Newt asks the empty room, and carefully sets down his mug. 

They’ve never messaged in real time before. 

He clicks on the notification nervously, and is greeted by: 

_ MA032: I suspected you’d be online right about now.  _

Newt grins, and shakes his head fondly.

_ STEMguy: You “suspected” correctly. Why the IM?  _

_ M: It’s faster. You said you required guidance. I do not intend to sound self-important, but I am, in fact, stellar at providing advice.  _

_ S: Right. I appreciate it, but I… don’t think you’ll be able to help.  _

_ M: Interesting. Is the problem too personal?  _

Another message appears before Newt has the chance to respond. 

_ M: Is it about love? _

_ S: No!!!!! Nothing like that. It’s still about my job. But no specifics. The basic idea is that my job has a hard expiration date. Unless I do something drastic. But I might hurt some people in the process.  _

_ M: I see.  _

_ M: Are the “people” you might hurt your competitors? _

_ S: Yes, actually. It’s this infuriating guy -- I swear he’s trying to ruin my life.  _

_ M: Right. Well, it’s hard to say without specifics, but it sounds to me as though your “drastic option” might be your best one. You are at war, no?  _

_ S: No. Not, like, me personally. Just stuck in a bad situation, I think.  _

_ M: You said this man was “trying to ruin” your life.  _

_ S: …  _

_ S: Fair point. That doesn’t mean I should try and ruin his right back, right? _

_ M: It’s not personal. It’s business.  _

_ S: That’s cold.  _

_ M: It’s true. Just keep repeating that to yourself: It’s not personal, it’s business. I know you said you sometimes struggle with extended confrontation; that you have a tendency to lose your nerve in the long run. This is your chance to prove to yourself that you can be brave!  _

_ S: I think you’re right. Ugh. I’m just so nervous about stuff like this. I’m a softie at heart.  _

_ M: I know.  _

_ M: I admire that about you.  _

_ S: Thanks for the advice.  _

_ M: Anytime. Goodnight, STEMguy. _

_ S: Night.  _

Newt logs off just as Frank wanders in, scribbling something on a legal pad. 

Now or never.

“Hey, Frank,” he says casually. “I’ve been thinking about this whole GGH thing, and -- well, remember how you were talking about doing a column on it a month or two back?” 

Frank freezes, pen hovering over his legal pad. “Yes?” 

Newt takes a deep breath. “I think it might be time to take the fuckers down.” 

“Yes!” Frank says, grinning widely and flipping his notebook open to a fresh page. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a shorter chap this time around in preparation for the Big Drama later LOL..... hope everyone enjoyed this part!!!!


	5. Chapter 5

_ INJUSTICE STRIKES AGAIN, AND IT’S COMING FOR OUR CHILDREN!  _

_ By Frank Navasky _

_ National corrupt aerospace firm GGH -- Gottlieb, Gottlieb, and Hamilton (check your nepotism) -- is in the process of stamping out Boston’s thriving educational community. After several bouts of well-deserved bad press, the corporate giant has decided to do what corporate giants do best: throw money at its problems and wipe out local color in the process. GGH is launching a propaganda campaign on our very doorsteps. It has bribed a local museum into displaying an exhibit all about their contributions to space travel, while carefully avoiding their contributions to military technology, in order to brainwash museumgoers into believing their firm is somehow beneficial to the country.  _

_ In the process, GGH has forced the museum to cut programs geared towards K-12 public education. “It’s a tragedy,” says Dr. Newton Geiszler, one staff member whose job is threatened by the cuts. “All we want is to promote education in the sciences, and inspire kids to love learning. And GGH is trying to take that away.”  _

_ That’s right: a national corporate giant aerospace firm with a suspicious past and suspect motives shows up and immediately cuts funding for public education. This isn’t an abstract threat, this is a direct attack on the community. Our kids’ education is at risk. Hasn’t GGH done enough damage already? Aren’t you tired of seeing capitalist pigs destroy local communities?  _

_ And most importantly: Are we just going to stand by and let this happen? _

_ I say no. Now is the time to stand up to megacorps who think they can walk all over the little guy. It’s time to protest. It’s time to take action. It’s time to fight back.  _

Hermann silently slides the paper over to Hamilton, and leans back in his chair. A few moments go by before Hamilton lets out a low whistle. “That’s not good.”

“Indeed,” Hermann says, and covers his eyes with a hand. “Not good at all.” 

“Would explain all the people outside with signs, though.” 

“Indeed,” Hermann says again, and snags the paper back. The picture that accompanies the column is a full-color closeup of Dr. Geiszler -- Newton, evidently -- smiling widely in a lab coat. The image does no justice to the man’s sparkling green eyes, Hermann notes, and then immediately tries to forget noting it. 

“They were chanting ‘get lost, GGH,’ and calling you Lieutenant Scheisskopf.” Hamilton smiles a little and shakes his head. He’s a shorter man, with thinning hair, and just a few years older than Hermann. He’s the closest thing Hermann’s got to a friend at the firm.

“I see their point, no matter how bluntly they’ve laid it out in this column,” Hermann says. “I do feel rather bad for the Geiszler fellow. I met him. Thrice, actually. He’s very passionate about his job.” 

“I bet he set up the whole thing,” Hamilton says, and then waves the thought away. “Anyway. It’s bad press. We scheduled a conference in an hour. They want to put the story on TV -- it’s getting pretty big. Apparently the museum is loaded with people protesting the new exhibit.” 

“I wish there was not so much collateral,” Hermann says absently, as Newton smiles winningly from the paper.

“It’s not personal, it’s business.” 

Hermann jumps. The elder Dr. Gottlieb has appeared in the doorway, shaking his head. “You can’t be soft on these people. You give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.”

“Of course,” Hermann says, and stands. He buttons his suit jacket, straightens his lapels, and flips the newspaper over, so Newton’s smiling into the table. “Shall we discuss our intended statement for the press conference?” 

\-----

“...time to fight back,” Tendo finishes, folding the paper with a flourish. “That’s great, Frank.” 

“You think so?” Frank is sitting on one of the museum’s tables, surrounded with various phones. He decided, against all Newt’s objections, that it was best for him to come with Newt to work today.

“I do,” Tendo says. “I like the part about their suspect motives.” 

“I’m worried it came off a little too aggressive,” Newt says. “Like, it didn’t even directly name the demo program, just, y’know, came at GGH. Is that gonna be enough publicity for us?” 

“We’ll know soon,” Frank says, and jumps to answer a ringing phone. “Hello, Navasky speaking.” 

Another phone starts to ring, and Tendo snags it. “Hello. No, he’s not available currently, can I take a message?” 

“Yes, well, it’s a tragedy. An outright tragedy. This huge firm is hurting these kids for PR. I know. I know.” Frank notes something down on a legal pad. “U-huh.” 

A third phone starts to ring, and Mark answers. “Hello, speaking for Navasky, he’s not avail -- I’m sorry, who?” 

“Well he’ll get back to you soon,” Tendo says into the phone, as Frank says “Right, thanks, yes you can quote me on that,” and then Mark is covering his phone’s mic with a hand and saying “Uh, guys, it’s NBC.” 

“What?” Frank says, and pushes past Newt to pick up the phone. “Hello, Navasky speaking.” 

“Fucking NBC?” Newt whispers to Tendo, who waves him off and says “Yes, he’ll be available later today. Yes. Yes. I agree, very moving. I’ll ask.” He covers the phone and says “Newt, are you interested in posing for  _ InStyle _ ?” 

“What?” Newt half-shouts, and shakes his head frantically. “Why are they asking for me?” 

“Apparently some folks think you’re really photogenic. You’re kind of the new face of the GGH protest.” 

“Right, of course. Of course he’d love to. Yes. Yes. Okay. You too.” Frank hangs up on NBC and turns to Newt. “Right. You have an interview with NBC in five minutes, they just came back from the GGH press conference and want a response statement from you.” 

“NBC?” Newt asks. “Like, TV?” 

“Yes, TV, Newt, they want your face up there speaking out against corporate oppressors like GGH. I’m doing the same on a local talk show later. It should just be a quick statement. Go with your gut.” Frank gives him a perfunctory shoulder pat and answers another phone. 

Newt sits heavily on a lab stool. Fucking NBC? 

He looks down at his clothes and swears. His shirt is coffee stained and he didn’t even think about wearing a tie. And now he’s going to be on TV? 

“Newt,” Tendo says, breaking into his thoughts, “NBC just gave the go-ahead. Do you want to throw on a lab coat and meet them outside? I think they want to have a shot of you in front of the protestors.” 

“Isn’t that a little exploitative?” Newt asks dazedly, following Frank through the museum. A few people smile and clap as he walks past. 

“Yeah. It’s perfect,” Frank says, and just like that they’re standing in front of the museum, facing a very intimidating camera.

Before he gets his bearings, a beautiful brunette woman moves to stand beside him and says “Three, two, and -- Hello and welcome to the Newsroom. We’re here with local scientist and museum staff member Dr. Newton Geiszler, whose job is at risk due to cuts threatened by national aerospace firm Gottleib, Gottlieb and Hamilton. Dr. Geiszler how are you today?”

“Good,” Newt says, caught off-guard. At a significant look from Frank, standing out of frame, he says “Well, not so good, actually. I mean my job is at risk, of course, but more importantly we’ve got this education program being cut, and all these kids who are missing out on valuable resources from the museum.” 

“That is the reason all of these protestors, who you can see behind us, have gathered here today. People have come out in droves to support the museum, and to support you, Dr. Geiszler.” The woman smiles at him beatifically. “How do you feel about the community coming together to protest GGH?” 

“Great,” Newt says. “It’s, it’s really something that has to happen, I mean, I’m glad that they’re protesting the firm coming in here and meddling with things. I hope that this energy continues into wanting to support the museum, too.” 

“Of course,” the woman says. “Now, we’ve received reports that you have actually met the younger Dr. Gottlieb before, is this true?” 

“Yes,” Newt says, and then hesitates. He doesn’t want to say anything about Dr. Gottlieb specifically, infuriating as he may be. He’s just doing his job.

“And what was your impression of him? Is he the kind of person who would listen to the demands of all these people, who have come out to protest his firm’s involvement?” The woman smiles expectantly. 

“Uh,” Newt says. “Well, when I met the guy, I…” 

_ It’s not personal _ , he reminds himself.  _ Just business. _

“I thought he was a total jerk. Completely self-serving. Mean. Exactly the kind of a man who you would picture stealing candy from babies,” Newt half-jokes, and then winces, immediately wishing he could unsay everything that just came out of his mouth. “But I guess he’s just doing his job,” he follows, weakly. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” says the woman, and then turns to the camera. “Thanks to Dr. Geiszler for taking the time to interview with us today. Now we have a clip--” 

“-- _ from the earlier press conference at GGH’s headquarters this morning. Watch now as the younger Dr. Gottlieb attempts to justify GGH’s involvement in community affairs as being “simply a business choice.”  _

Hermann sighs and switches off the TV. 

“They don’t seem to like you,” Hamilton says. “It looks like they’re all really pulling for Geiszler’s underdog narrative.” 

“‘Exactly the kind of man you would picture stealing candy from babies,’” Hermann quotes derisively. “Don’t let that flattering interview fool you, he’s not nearly as nice as he seems on TV.” 

“Probably not as handsome either,” Hamilton says with a wink. 

“No, unfortunately. He’s much prettier in person. But also a bit histrionic.” 

“Well, to be fair, you are ruining his career.” 

Hermann bristles. “You know very well I opposed this move into community affairs from the start--”

“Simmer down,” Hamilton says, and claps him on the shoulder. “I know. I’m just saying, I get where he’s coming from.” 

“As do I,” Hermann sighs. 

\-----

“That can’t be right,” Newt says, sifting through ticket stubs two weeks later. “Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” Tendo says, tapping away at his phone’s calculator. “We’re still on a decline. And not just us. The museum as a whole.” 

“All that publicity and nothing to show for it.” Newt closes his eyes and leans back as far as he can on the lab stool, coaxing a satisfying  _ crack _ out of his upper back. “I don’t understand how that could possibly be.” 

“Well, I guess nobody wants to cross the picket line to come in,” Tendo says. “They are protesting the museum for taking GGH’s money.”   
“Shit,” Newt says. “You’re right. We got them protesting us instead of helping us on accident. Is it too late to publicly beg people to come to the museum?” 

“Yep,” Tendo says, and hands Newt a folded memo. “Also, Pentecost is pissed you showed up on TV, and even more pissed about what it’s doing to daily headcounts.”

Newt goes to open the memo, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach, when Tendo catches his hand. 

“If I were you, boss, I’d read that one later. At home. You’re not fired, I’ll tell you that much, but, well… just have a stiff drink on hand, okay?” 

Newt groans. “Why can’t anything ever go right for me? I try keeping my head down, waiting it out, and that does fuck all. I try going to war, and that just makes things worse. It’s not personal, it’s business, okay, great, but my business is personal. It’s so personal. It’s, like, my whole life. What do I do?” 

Tendo shrugs. “Not much you can do. Just wait for the hammer to fall, I guess.” 

“That can’t be it,” Newt says. “There has to be something we haven’t tried.” 

“Even if there was something else we could do, I doubt it would be worth it.” Tendo shakes his head. “We’re gonna lose our jobs, man. The program is getting cut. It’s inevitable.” 

Newt squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t believe that. I’m not giving up hope yet.” 

“Alright. Suit yourself. I’m heading home for the night.” Tendo sweeps the last of the ticket stubs into a tub and leaves. 

“Fuck,” Newt says quietly, and slides off his chair. He paces the length of the room for a while, bouncing between the chalkboards and the exit, before he finally lies down on the floor. He stays there for what feels like hours, just breathing in the smell of the place, looking at ancient wads of gum stuck on the underside of lab tables, listening to the scratchy hum of the heating system. When his lower back starts to ache, protesting the hardness of the floor, he pulls out his phone and drafts a new email. 

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: It’s Not Personal… _

_...Except it actually is. I tried your advice, and I guess it sort of worked, but not in the way I wanted. Or needed. Everything’s falling apart just as fast as before. And now I’ve got the added bonus of feeling like a dick on top of everything else. I guess I’m just not the kind of person who can separate “business” from “personal.” I said some kind of nasty things in the name of “business” and now my “personal” feelings are mostly just guilt and regret.  _

_ Ugh.  _

_ I wish you were here. I imagine you’d say exactly the right thing, in exactly the right way, and I’d suddenly see the situation from a whole new angle, and everything would be okay. You always make me feel that way. Like I’m talking to somebody I’ve known my whole life, somebody who really gets me. Somebody who cares. And I think you do. I know I care about you. I mean, months of these letters, months of staying up late typing out my soul to you, how could I not?  _

_ Okay. Enough stalling. I’m sick of dancing (typing?) around the issue. No second thoughts. No takebacks. No regrets. Here we go.  _

_ Do you still want to meet? _

  
  


_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Personal  _

_ Where? And when?  _

\----- 

“No,” Newt says. “I did not tell Frank.” 

Tendo wolf-whistles. “Spicy.” 

“We’re meeting in a public place. That one coffee shop downtown with the cheesecake. So there’s no danger.”

“Don’t go anywhere with him,” Mark warns. “I heard that we’re supposed to be on watch for a serial killer.” 

Newt rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna get serial killed.” 

“That’s what everybody thinks,” Mark says solemnly. “Hey, you’ve never seen him before, right?”   
“Right,” Newt confirms, “but we have a thing set up. Like, signals. So we’ll recognize each other on sight.” 

Tendo snorts. “Let me guess. You’ll be waiting alone at the table, where you’ve placed a crimson rose inside a copy of  _ Anna Karenina _ . He’ll be wearing a rose in his lapel.” 

Newt shuffles uncomfortably. 

“Newt,” Tendo says, half-horrified. “Are you actually doing that?” 

“Not  _ Anna Karenina _ .  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . But otherwise yes. Shut up.” 

\-----

“So I guess the guy’s gonna have a book with a flower in it, eh?” Hamilton ribs, nudging Hermann in the side. 

Hermann does not dignify this with a response. 

“Wait. Is he -- are you two actually doing that?” 

Hermann clears his throat and readjusts the rose in his lapel. 

“Tropey,” Hamilton says, and then stops. They’re outside a high-end café, with large windows and a warmly lit interior. It looks romantic. “Alright, kid. Here we are.” 

Hermann feels abruptly cold. “Oh god. It’s really happening. I’m really meeting him.” 

“Yes you are,” Hamilton says. “Took you long enough. Months of emailing back and forth? That’s a commitment.” 

“I know.” Hermann fidgets nervously. “Oh dear. Oh no. I don’t think I can do this.” 

“You have to,” Hamilton says, and nudges him towards the door. 

“Oh dear. Oh dear. What if -- alright. Listen. Here’s my plan. I’ll stay for ten minutes. I’ll have a coffee. And if it goes terribly I will leave. After ten minutes. I can do ten minutes,” Hermann says, awkwardly digging for a handkerchief to wipe the layer of cold sweat off his brow. “Goodness. I’m quite -- I’m feeling rather nervous.” 

“I can tell,” says Hamilton. “Why? Don’t you, like, love this guy?” 

“I do,” Hermann confesses, mopping his brow with greater intensity. “That is exactly why it’s all so nerve wracking. What if -- what if he has a terrible beard? One of the ones that looks like a bicycle helmet strap? I hate those. Why did I agree to meet him? What if this ruins the best relationship I’ve ever had in my life?”

“Look, you're already late. Would it help if I went up and looked for him?” Hamilton asks, with genuine concern. 

“Would you?” Hermann asks, and breathes deeply as Hamilton walks up to glance in the windows. 

“Well, I don’t see any men waiting alone -- no, wait,” he says, leaning in, “there’s a guy, he was behind the waiter. He’s got a book with a flower in it.” 

“Oh, damn it all,” Hermann says, tucking his handkerchief back into a pocket. “This is the most perfect man I have ever spoken to in my life. I’d be a fool not to ask him to marry me on the spot, no matter what he looks like. After I leave Patrick, of course.” 

Hamilton is suspiciously silent. 

“Well?” Hermann asks, focusing on breathing deeply. It would do him no favors to faint outside the café before even meeting his penpal.

“He’s not… ugly,” Hamilton says slowly. “He’s actually very handsome.” 

“That’s heartening,” Hermann says, despite the nervous lurch in his stomach. 

“Right. I’d say he actually has a bit of the look of that Geiszler fellow.” 

Hermann gives Hamilton a long stare. “Geiszler. From the museum.” 

“Right. Is that bad? Didn’t you say he was handsome?” 

“I suppose I did,” Hermann says after a brief pause.

Hamilton clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t like Dr. Geiszler, you certainly won’t like this man.”

“And why would that be?” 

Hamilton steps back from the window and rubs the back of his neck. “Because he is Dr. Geiszler.” 

“What?” Hermann very nearly shouts, and turns to stare into the window. There, sitting by himself, complete with book and red rose, is Dr. Newton Geiszler himself. “Oh, God.” 

“What are you gonna do?” asks Hamilton. 

Hermann watches Newton fidget with his book. He looks comfortable, and happy, although a little bit nervous. A waiter briefly blocks him from view and Hermann sighs. 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” Hamilton asks. “You’re just going to let him wait there all night? By himself?” 

“Yes,” Hermann says, ripping the rose out of his lapel and crushing it into the concrete with his cane. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” 

“But he wrote all those letters,” Hamilton says, and then shrugs when Hermann levels a glare at him. “Okay. Whatever you have to do. Goodnight, Dr. Gottlieb.” Hamilton disappears into the night.

In the window, Newton runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in fluffy disarray. It's unfairly endearing.

Hermann turns to leave.

And then turns back.

\-----

Newt sighs deeply and checks his watch. His heart sinks. MA032 is approaching forty minutes late. He glances around and then slides his book-and-rose combo closer to the edge of the table, so it’s more visible. The rose is starting to wilt slightly. 

”Are you using this chair?” a waiter asks. 

Newt startles. “Oh. Yes, sorry. I’m waiting on someone.” 

Another ten minutes go by. He orders a third coffee to keep the waiter happy, and debates messaging MA032. What if the guy got lost? Or forgot what time to meet? Or, God forbid, had some sort of emergency? 

A handsome man walks through the door and Newt smiles, only to be disappointed when he joins a group in a booth. He can’t assume every attractive man who walks in is the one he’s waiting for. Though he really hopes MA032 is his type. He’s starting to think he might really be kind of in love with the guy, and if he’s being honest he’s been having some kind of long-term life-plan-y thoughts floating around ever since -- 

“Dr. Newton Geiszler. What a coincidence,” a familiar voice says, drily sarcastic, and Newt’s stomach drops. “Mind if I sit here?” asks Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, looming ominously over Newt’s table. 

“I do,” Newt says, trying to keep his tone level. “I’m actually waiting for someone.” 

“I see,” Hermann says, and then, quick as lightning, snags Newt’s book. “ _ Pride and Prejudice _ ?” 

“Give it back,” Newt says, swiping at the book. 

“I never pegged you as a Jane Austen fan,” Hermann says, “but it fits. I suspect you think of yourself privately as a real Elizabeth Bennet. And of course Darcy sets your little romantic heart ablaze with feeling.” He sits down, and Newt drops his head into his hands. 

“Would you leave, please?” he asks. 

“I will when your date arrives. Is he late?” Hermann asks. Snidely. And characteristically dickishly. 

Newt feels a sharp tug in his chest. “You know, Elizabeth Bennet is a fantastic character. And Jane Austen is a literary genius. Not that you’d know. You probably spend all your time--” 

“Stealing candy from babies?” Hermann quips. “Yes, I’ve heard that rumor about myself. Curious thing, that. Still, I have read  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . Which you would have known, if you bothered to get to know me at all.” He plucks a petal off the rose. 

“I don’t want to get to know you,” Newt spits. “You’re rude, and condescending, and you’re trying to ruin my life! Get to know you. I’d rather die, asshole, and you can quote me on that. I know just what I’d find if I tried to get to know you, and that’s absolutely nothing. You have no personality. Just spite.” 

Hermann raises an eyebrow. 

Newt shakes his head. “No. You deserved that. And I don’t feel even a little bit bad. Normally I can’t stand to be nasty to people but you, you are so truly abhorrent to me that I can’t bring myself to care. Look at me, no tears. No regret. What a breakthrough.”

“Glad I could be of help,” Hermann says. “For what it’s worth, meanness seems to come very naturally to you. No personality, just spite -- quite poetic, that.”

“Me? I’m the mean one?” Newt demands, incredulous. “You--” 

“Calm down,” Hermanns says, sounding suddenly tired. “I’m paying you a compliment. What have we here?” 

“Please give that back,” Newt says, making an unsuccessful grab towards the red rose Hermann’s holding aloft. 

“A red rose. Stuck in a book. How trite. Very  _ Shop Around the Corner _ of you. I suppose the man you’re waiting for is going to have a matching one in his lapel?” 

“Why are you doing this?” Newt asks. “Is everything a joke to you?” 

“No. I’m just a mean old man who steals candy from babies,” Hermann says, holding the rose just out of Newt’s reach. 

Newt’s temper flares again. “You are insufferable!” he half-yells, and people at the surrounding tables turn to look. “Boo-hoo! Somebody was publicly critical of your actions! I feel so bad for you, you ridiculous multimillionaire!” 

The door dings open and Newt turns expectantly towards it despite himself. When a group of older women comes through, he can’t help visibly drooping. What if MA032 is standing him up? What if he sees him at the table with another man and leaves? What if he just doesn’t like the way Newt looks, and walks past the coffee shop, and Newt never hears from him again?

When he looks back, Hermann is staring at him closely. “You’re really invested in… whomever it is you’re waiting for,” he says. “Who is it, I wonder? A lover? A friend? A colleague? And how will you speak to him? Kindly? Sweetly? Or will you have occasion to bring out that sharp tongue of yours?” 

“I am invested,” Newt says. “Because I care about him. And I think he cares about me. And I would never say anything terrible to him, because this man is nothing like you. He’s kind and smart and sweet, and he has the best sense of humor, and he gets me -- ” 

“And yet he isn't here.” Hermann says flatly. “And I am.”

Newt is stunned into a brief silence. 

“What, having second thoughts about Mr. Perfect? Already?” Hermann sneers. 

“I’m sure he has a good reason,” Newt defends after a moment, partly for his own benefit. “He’d never stand me up. I know he wouldn’t. Because he’s reliable and he doesn’t have a cruel or malicious bone in his body. But I can’t expect you to know anything about that kind of a person, Dr. Gottlieb. You’re just an empty suit. You don’t have empathy, you don’t care about anything but yourself, and you think it’s funny to make other people upset. I get it. I understand. But I’m telling you that this night is important to me. Really important. So can you please, for once in your life,” Newt says, staring hard into Dr. Gottlieb's eyes, ”leave me alone?” 

Hermann stares back at him in silence for a long moment, expression unreadable. “I see,” he says quietly. “I apologize for intruding on your evening.” He tosses the wilting rose onto the table between them and stands up, straightening his suit jacket. “Goodnight, Dr. Geiszler.” 

Newt watches him leave, and then checks his watch. An hour twenty past their agreed meeting time, but he can wait a while longer. 

He stays until the coffee shop closes for the night, but MA032 never shows. 

Newt leaves in tears and comes back to an empty apartment, and, more devastatingly, to an empty inbox. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY TO NEWT


	6. Chapter 6

_ No new messages _ . 

Newt swears softly and shoves his phone back into his pocket. It’s been nearly three days since MA032 stood him up, and still radio silence from the guy. He sent an embarrassingly needy, super-sad email that same night, crying over his laptop with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand and a disgusting hipster beer Frank picked out in the other. Embarrassing, but honest, and he figured he’d hear back from MA032 right away. 

_ Dear STEMguy,  _ Newt imagined reading,  _ I’ve had a terribly tragic accident, and only the sight of your lovely face can restore my health _ , or maybe  _Dear STEMguy, you were so incredibly sexy that my face melted off when I saw you and I had to go to the ER,_ or even just a  _ Dear STEMguy, I’ve had a family emergency -- _ but nothing came. No email, no instant message, no explanation. Nothing. It stings Newt every time he thinks about it, and he finds himself blinking back tears for the third time that morning as he walks into the demo room. 

“There he is!” Tendo calls, hopping off a table and holding his arms wide. “There’s Mr. Romance! How’d it go, big shot?” 

“He never came,” Newt says, setting his bag on a stool. 

Tendo’s smile drops instantly. “Shit. He stood you up?” 

“I dunno. I think maybe something happened, and he couldn’t make it, not because he didn’t want to, just that he couldn’t, and he couldn’t let me know--” 

Mark bursts in, waving a newspaper. “Guys! You’ll never believe --” He stops short when he sees how abjectly miserable Newt looks. “What happened?” 

“He never came.” 

“He stood you up?” 

“What else could have happened?” Newt turns to Tendo. “What if he took one look at me and then left?” 

“No!” Tendo says, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re a catch.” 

“I’m a catch,” Newt repeats miserably. “You know, maybe there was a subway accident.” 

“Definitely,” Tendo says. 

“Guys,” Mark says, holding up his newspaper, but Newt waves him off. 

“Definitely a subway accident. He got trapped underground, and he didn’t have any cell signal. Or,” Newt continues, “maybe he got in a car accident. Like, with a cab. They drive like idiots. Everyone knows that.” 

“Car crash,” Tendo agrees sympathetically. “Totally a horrible car crash.” 

“And,” Newt says, sniffling a little, “maybe he’s got two broken arms. So he’s got casts on and he can’t type.” 

“Can’t type with broken hands,” Tendo says solemnly, and then says “Fucking  _ what _ , Mark?” when Mark slaps the newspaper onto the table. 

“Rooftop Killer Apprehended in Downtown Boston,” Mark reads, pointing emphatically at the headline. 

There’s a long pause. 

“What are you saying?” Newt asks. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

“You got lucky. Very lucky. Your guy? He was gonna serial kill you. He was arrested two blocks from the coffee place you went.” Mark shakes his head. 

“So he was in jail,” Newt says. “Can’t have a phone in jail.” 

“Well, one phone in jail,” Tendo says, “but that’s a one-call kind of deal--” 

“Right! He had to call his lawyer. That makes sense. Those priorities are in order.” Newt pauses. “Wait. No. Jesus, he’s not the Rooftop Killer. He can’t be.” 

“Remember when you thought Frank was blackmailing that Boston legislator?” Tendo asks. 

Newt snorts. “Totally different circumstances. Point is this guy wouldn’t hurt anybody.” 

“How long did you sit there for?” Mark asks. 

“Couple hours,” Newt says, and waves off their pitying  _ awws _ . “Hermann Gottlieb showed up. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s get to work.” 

“Right,” Tendo says, and then fidgets in place. “Ah. About that.” 

“There has to be work,” Newt says. “There’s always work to do. Organize the inventory, at the very least.” 

“Did that twice yesterday,” Mark says. 

“Catalog the glassware?” 

“Done,” Tendo says. “Four times. Dude, there’s nothing to do we haven’t done already.”

“There’s always work,” Newt repeats, troubled.

Tendo shrugs. “Not today.”

__

\-----

_  
  
To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: I Ain’t Ever Gonna Understand Last Night _

_ Pardon the Strokes byline. I can’t think of anything cleverer. Or anything else at all, really, because I can’t stop thinking about you. I waited on my own for hours and you never showed up. I felt so stupid sitting there with the waitresses giving me sad eyes every time they asked if I wanted a refill on my coffee. There’s no way to look like you haven’t just been stood up when you’re holding a dying flower. It must’ve looked utterly pathetic. Felt pretty pathetic, I can tell you that much.  _

_ And on top of all this -- remember that guy you said I ought to go to war with? The one who was trying to ruin my life? Who has made my every waking moment a literal hell? That guy? He showed up. Caught me sitting there all sad with my stupid flower. I guess I kind of lashed out. It felt good at the time, and I was impressed at myself for managing to stand up to him, but then… you were right. I felt terrible. Instantly. I’m never that mean. I can’t believe anything I say would matter even a little bit to the guy, seeing as I’m just a dumb little fly buzzing around his billion-dollar company, waiting to be swatted -- but he’s still a person. No excuse for trying to hurt him, even if he’s hurt me.  _

_ Anyway. I think I should be upset at you, or angry, but really I’m just hurt. I can’t see you as the kind of person who would intentionally stand a guy up. I’m guessing something came up. I’m hoping something came up. I don’t know if I could bear the alternative -- you showed up, and took one look at me, and decided I was so completely and comically hideous, or ridiculous, that you wanted nothing to do with me. If that’s the case, and if we never talk again, I just want you to know that I think you’re one of the closest friends I’ve ever had. Sad? Maybe, but true. Knowing that you were always there for me, on the other side of this screen, has made my life better.  _

_ I hope you write back. My life’s a happier place with you in it.  _

Hermann shakes his head and closes his laptop. He won’t respond. He won’t. STEMguy -- Newton’s -- email had come through nearly a week ago, and he still has no idea how to respond. He had, in fact, made up his mind to never respond. He would simply disappear from Newton’s life forever, vanish without a trace, and spare them both the heartache of Newton realizing who, exactly, MA 032 is. 

The problem he’s facing is that he hasn’t spared himself any misery whatsoever. He catches himself avoiding the gaze of every small brunette man he sees on the street. All his coffee tastes of ash. The sight of roses brings him nearly to tears. He can’t focus on his work, too busy internally lingering over the contents of Newton’s latest, and heartbreakingly compassionate, email. 

He goes to brush his teeth, avoiding his own gaze.  _ Made his every waking moment a living hell _ , his traitorous brain recites, when he accidentally locks eyes with his reflection. He’s reread Newton’s letter frequently enough to have it completely memorized, word for painful word.  _ Waited on his own for hours _ , his brain supplies.  _ Felt so stupid and pathetic _ . 

“Stop,” Hermann tells his reflection firmly. 

“What?” Patrick asks from the other room. 

“What?” Hermann asks, startled, then runs a hand over his eyes. He keeps, somehow, forgetting about Patrick. It seems as though it would be difficult to miss a six-foot-four wall of a man in a one bedroom apartment, but he’s been managing it consistently. “Sorry. Nothing. Just talking to myself.” 

Patrick says something in reply, but he can’t make it out through the door. 

“Get it together,” he whispers to himself. 

He does not get it together. 

Instead, he lies in bed for hours, his brain continuing to plague him with excerpts from Newton’s letter. New waves of guilt crash over him with each line he recalls.  _ Decided he was so completely and comically hideous, or ridiculous, that you wanted nothing to do with him. _ Hardly. 

Hermann rolls over, out of reach of the arm Patrick’s thrown over his waist.  _ Hideous _ . A joke in poor taste, perhaps. Newton couldn’t possibly think anyone would find him unattractive, let alone so terrible looking that they would stand him up on sight. No. His lovely green eyes, hidden away behind endearingly large glasses, were too obviously enchanting. His small frame, pleasingly soft belly, and short stature were positively enticing. And that was to say nothing of his winsome smile, his charmingly ruffled hair, his strong hands… 

Hermann rolls over again.  _ One of his closest friends _ . Hermann felt the same way. A week on and he misses Newton’s correspondances deeply. Could he really go the rest of his life without talking to the man? Should he? Would it be better to pretend nothing happened, and continue to talk to STEMguy as MA032? Or should he vanish as he intended to in the first place? 

_ I hope you write back. My life’s a happier place with you in it.  _

Hermann sighs, and reaches for his laptop. 

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Last Week _

_ Hello, STEMguy. I am in Utah _ . __

Hermann drops his head into his hands. No. Delete. 

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Last Week _

_ STEMguy. Hello. I was trapped in a meeting, which I couldn’t get out of. It was the 98th floor, and the power went out. And my phone fell out a window. Also my laptop was broken. -- _

Hermann looks at the draft. Pictures STEMguy reading it, after being stood up for hours, and then ignored for a week. 

_ \-- Amazingly enough _ , he adds. 

“Idiot,” Hermann mutters, and deletes the whole thing. 

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Re: Last Night  _

_ My dearest friend. I can’t explain, at this moment, what happened that night, but I implore you, from the bottom of my heart, to forgive me for not being there.  _

Hermann pauses, and then backspaces. 

\--  _ to forgive me for what happened. I feel terrible that you found yourself hurt and disappointed, and that you had a run in with someone who made you feel worse. I am sure, however, that whatever you said was provoked. Deserved, even. And everyone says things they don’t mean when they’re upset, or nervous, or stressed. You were expecting to meet a close friend, and met the enemy instead. The fault is entirely my own.  _

_ I promise that someday I will explain everything. Meanwhile, I’m here, and missing you dearly.  _

_ Talk to me. I’m here for you.  _

\--- 

“All I’m saying,” Newt says loudly, feeling absurdly frustrated, “is that it’s not fair to keep it in my apartment. You have, like, four already.” 

“The brand matters. The year matters,” Frank says, throwing his hands up. “I don’t get why you don’t get this. Typewriters are an act of rebellion against a culture of impermanence. It’s-- it’s about the literary history of word processing. It’s about how technology is polluting the writing process!” 

“So use a goddamn pencil!” Newt half-shouts. 

“Shh,” says the woman in front of them, her face indistinguishable in the movie theater’s darkness. 

“It’s an ad for popcorn,” Newt says, at the same time Frank says “Sorry, do you want to be manipulated by the capitalists with no background noise?” 

“You’re a capitalist,” Newt says. 

“Am not!” Frank says, looking severely offended. 

“You bought popcorn,” Newt says, shoving the box at him. 

“Well, God forbid I participate in society!” Frank yells, before storming out of the theater. Newt follows close behind, blinking against a streetlight’s harsh fluorescent glare. 

“Frank,” he says, and grabs at the other man’s sleeve. “Frank, I’m sorry. It’s been a bad week for me, but that’s not it. Not really. And I think you know that.” 

Frank turns to face him. “Yeah. I know. It wasn’t fair of me to get so heated up at you when it’s -- it’s me that’s…”

“Wait, what?” Newt asks. 

“You’re a great guy,” Frank says. 

“So are you,” Newt says, squinting at him. “Uh. Is this.” 

“Please let me finish. You’re a great guy, and I mean, you’re perfect for me, and I know you wouldn’t be with anybody who you thought wasn’t worthy of you, and I’m honored that you think that I’m maybe the person for you--” 

“I feel the same way,” Newt says. 

Frank buries his face against his forearm, and sighs. “This is hard enough without you saying stuff like that.” 

“You don’t love me,” Newt guesses, and, absurdly, grins when Frank looks at him. 

“No,” Frank says, grinning back a little. 

“I don’t love you either!” Newt says, and laughs. “Oh god. We’re so right for each other on paper.” 

“I know!” Frank laughs. “Wow.” 

“Is there somebody else?” Newt asks, genuinely interested. 

“Well…” Frank sighs. “Remember that guy from the party? Patrick?” 

“Oh my God,” Newt groans. “Him? Mr. Beefcake?” A thought dawns on him. “Isn’t he, like, with Gottlieb?” 

“I can’t help myself,” Frank non-answers. “How about you?” 

Newt thinks of MA032 and blushes. “No. Nobody. But out there, somewhere, maybe. We’ll see.” 

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: Walkin’ Out That Door  _

_DUDE!!! Glad we’re still talking. I don’t understand why you can’t tell me what happened, but I’ll have to be okay with that. I hope everything's okay. I hope YOU'RE okay. I was worried about you! I kept thinking of all this scenarios where you got into, like, a horrible accident and died, and I'd never even find out about it because nobody knows that we "know" each other here. I'm glad that's not the case. And I missed you. Bad._

_ You chose a great time to write back. I just broke up with my boyfriend [boom, there’s a personal detail if I’ve ever heard one] of two years. Remember when STEMguy’s problems were purely professional? Ah, good times. We’re getting multicategorical up in here.  _

_Still. I thought I’d be more upset. Or feel more of a loss. Like when I thought I'd never talk to you again. That was real devastation. But now I feel… relieved._

_ Is that terrible? It feels kind of terrible. He was great. We got along. But there was really nothing between us besides convenience. Have you ever felt that way? Like, on paper, you have everything you want -- but for some reason you still aren’t happy. Like you’re missing something, even though you’re ridiculously grateful for everything you already have.  _

_ Maybe I’m just selfish. Or something. I don’t know.  _

_ I missed you, dude.  _

_ Write back soon.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Sorry this shorter chapter took so long; local heatwave has been so bad I literally cannot function. I wrote this in the relative cool of my 101 degree Fahrenheit room. I Am Melting. I hope to have the next installment up much faster than this one -- not too long to go til the end!! I hope everybody enjoyed!!


	7. Chapter 7

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: Watching the days go by  _

_ Remember that thing I said about my job having an expiration date? Well, it finally happened. I’m officially unemployed. STEMguy is now just “guy.” In a formal capacity, at least; I firmly believe everyone’s a scientist at heart, no matter the job title. Or lack thereof, in my case. I’ll spare you the gory details, so, in fifty words or less: I cleaned storage out this morning, said goodbye to my boss and my coworkers, and cried over my little lab until security threatened to drag me out on a hand truck. I know there’s nothing I could have done, but I can’t help but feeling like I’ve failed at life. Like, I’m thirty-five with a frankly embarrassing amount of education under my belt and I’m somehow back to browsing the classifieds -- what the hell, man? _

_ That job really was everything I ever wanted. I know I could’ve sold out -- could still sell out, frankly, I won’t share my exact qualifications but rest assured they are ridiculously impressive, if I do say so myself -- but I can’t stand the bureaucracy of it all. Academia, I mean, which I assume you’ve gathered by this point, so it’s not really cheating to say. I tried it when I was younger, but the amount of red tape one has to machete through, the budget proposals, the curricula reviews, the job talks…  _

_ I am not the kind of person who can beg for tenure with a straight face.  _

_ I did miss my students, though. _

_ Do miss them. _

_ I’m angry, and disappointed, and pretty miserable, but at the same time -- and bear with me, because this is going to sound patently insane, and more than a little masochistic -- I’m a little excited? Of course I’m devastated about my job. It really was everything I wanted. But I’ve always loved a challenge. There’s nothing in the world as satisfying as building something amazing out of nothing. Even if that “nothing” is your newly ruined professional life.  _

_ I don’t know. I’ve kind of always wanted to be an author.  _

_ What do you think?  _

_ Is this all ridiculous?  _

_ Should I sell out? Set myself up in an ivory tower office and drown in paperwork til I die? _

_ What else is there, even?  _

_ I don’t know anymore. I guess we’ll see.  _

_ You know how it goes -- tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther, etc etc. I may be nothing but a boat against the current, but I have the feeling I’m being borne into the future, not the past.  _

_ Write soon. _

_ (P.S. Too much? Before you criticize I’d like to remind you that I am extremely unemployed. Much free time, many books to reread, such wow.) _

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Re: Watching the days go by  _

_ I’m sorry. I truly am. I know how trite that must sound, but I am. Sorry. I am sure that the passion you brought to your job -- your wholehearted interest, your love for the work, your genuine investment -- will not be forgotten by those you encountered in the course of it all.  _

_ Regarding academia -- I, too, have grappled with that beast and come out worse for wear. I had little patience for the overbearing senior faculty, the restrictions imposed by department heads, the gratingly disingenuous social niceties, though I admit I have considered returning more than once. I am considering leaving my current place of employment, so you may not be the only one who is “extremely unemployed” in the coming days. Though I must say I struggle to class you as “extremely unemployed” at this juncture -- from the order of events you’ve described, it appears you’ve been without a job for less than three hours. It’s hardly the time to start catastrophizing -- I find it productive, when between jobs, to wait at least until the eighth hour to allow the dread to set in.  _

_ I urge you to -- and brace yourself for a truly odious cliche -- follow your heart. Knowing you, I have the utmost faith that you will succeed in whatever next captures your boundless enthusiasm. _

_ I can only imagine how lucky one who finds even a sliver of that attention focused on themselves must be.  _

_ Don’t despair -- things will look up soon. I am certain of it.  _

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: Re: Re: Watching…  _

_ This is going to sound insane, but -- if I theoretically starting writing a longform young adult sci-fi series, would you read over the manuscript?  _

_ Theoretically of course.  _

_ I’m not saying that that’s what I’m dedicating all my Extremely Free Time to. There’s a lot of  _ Star Trek _ binge watching in there, too. And extremely little job hunting.  _

_ Is this insane? It feels insane.  _

_ What do you know about rockets?  _

_ I’m a STEMguy, but not exactly that kind of STEMguy and I think I might need to chat with an astrophysicist.  _

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Rockets  _

_ Impressive. You’ve managed to develop an extremely tenable passion project in a record forty-eight hours of unemployment.  _

_ As for me -- in my first hours of unemployment (yes, I’ve finally quit my job, it’s been a long time coming) I’ve managed to end my relationship of three years. In a stopped elevator, if you can believe it. We were standing there, and I looked at him, and thought “MA032, is this really what you want?” The answer was no. And so I -- ended it. Right then and there. The elevator started moving, it dropped us at my apartment and I told him to pack his things. Neither of us took it too hard, thankfully, but -- the melodrama of it all. Unbelievable. _

_ Without revealing too much about myself (though I’ve already revealed plenty) I can say I have more than a passing knowledge of astrophysics, and I would be deeply honored to read anything you are willing to send my way. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for sci-fi. Space travel above all. What’s out there? we ask, and, more importantly, who is out there? What will they be like? What will they see in us? Bravery, curiosity, empathy, kindness? Something worse? Something better? Who knows?  _

_ Not I -- though I love to imagine it.  _

_ Regardless, I’m happy to be your (literary) rocket inspector.  _

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032 _

_ Subject: Re: Rockets  _

_ Dear STEMguy -- is everything alright? I assume you are terribly busy. If this is the case, do not feel in any way pressured to respond until you have ample time. Still, I can’t shake the worry something may have happened since your last correspondence. I hope that isn’t the case -- let me know, when you can, that you’re alright.  _

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: Ughhhh  _

_ Hey man. Sorry for the lack of communication. The truths’s I’m extremely horribly terribly ill. I’m melting into a pile of mush and misery. I can barely read, let alone type. I’ll get back to you when I’m feeling better. Sorry. _

Newt squints hard at the message he sent MA032 an hour ago. Something about it seems grammatically off, but the pressure building in his sinuses is making his eyesight even blurrier than normal, and he’s so thoroughly sick he can’t be fucked to get out of bed, let alone send a followup email. MA032, stickler for correct grammar he is, would still probably cut Newt some slack in the face of the world’s worst cold. 

Newt shuts his laptop, displacing a few used kleenexes in the process, and sneezes miserably. Oh god. He’s unemployed, he’s single, and he can’t even breathe through his nose. Life just keeps getting better. 

_ Bzz _ . 

“Whmmst?” Newt asks, jerking upright. He must have dozed off again. He’s always horribly sleepy when he gets sick. 

_ “Dr. Gesizler?”  _ asks his apartment’s intercom. 

Newt sniffles and rolls over, burying his head into his pillow. What time is it, even? Way too late for visitors, probably. Whoever it is can come back later. 

_ “Hello, Dr. Geiszler? Are you there?”  _

Newt burrows deeper beneath his duvet. 

_ “Dr. Geiszler -- really, I must insist you answer the door.”  _

Newt pulls his pillow over his head. 

_ “Dr Geiszler, you live in a ground level apartment and your curtains are open. You realize I can see you ignoring me?”  _

Newt rolls over and glares out the, admittedly, very open window. A tall, thin man is silhouetted against the, huh, afternoon light. 

The man raps on the window and then presses the intercom’s buzzer again. 

“What are you doing here?” Newt tries to snap, but really only manages to sigh, as he rolls out of bed and peers into the intercom’s display to see --  _ what _ \-- Hermann Gottlieb standing on his doorstep. 

_ “Can I come in?”  _ the little Hermann on the intercom display asks in his full 360p black and white glory. As Newt watches, his neighbor pushes past Hermann to -- damnit -- unlock the door, and double damnnit, Hermann follows him in. A second later the man is knocking at his door. 

“I’m terribly sick,” Newt says as he opens the door, hoping he sounds just as miserable as he feels. 

To his surprise, Hermann holds out a box of tissues. “I heard,” he says gravely, “and I was worried, so I thought I might stop by and check up on you.” 

“Oh.” Newt stares at him for a moment. “Okay. Hey, uh, you killed my job--” 

“I know--” 

“You’re here to gloat? Is that it?” Newt asks, feeling even more exhausted. 

“No--”

“Gonna offer me a job?” Newt wonders aloud, and then remembers, “You know, I actually got a job offer already from your boyfriend.”

“Former boyfriend,” Hermann clarifies, looking uncomfortable. “We broke up.”

“Fancy that. You two seemed like such a perfect match, with all the blatant disregard for others--” Newt claps a hand over his mouth, and his sinus headache pulses sympathetically. “Sorry. I don’t mean to say things like that. I never say things like that. Something about you just brings it out in me.” 

“I know. And I’m sorry for that,” Hermann says gravely, and then suddenly he’s holding -- he’s holding -- 

Newt sways slightly on his feet with the sheer amount of effort he’s dedicating to processing the turn things have taken. 

“For me?” he asks, looking at the beautiful bouquet of daisies that Hermann is holding towards him, or rather at him, like he’s just finished some sort of magic trick. “Can’t hide a rabbit in that hat,” he muses aloud, looking up at Hermann’s ridiculous little winter cap, and then immediately cringes. 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermann asks, still holding his bouquet. 

“Nyquil,” Newt says, and then sneezes. Twice. 

“Right,” Hermann says, and then tentatively pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll put these in some water, then, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushes past Newt and begins to rummage around in the kitchen. 

“Am I hallucinating?” Newt asks, drifting after. 

Hermann sets the daisies, now happily vased, in the center of the table, and Newt reaches out to touch, catching a silky petal between his fingers. “I love daisies.” 

“You told me,” Hermann says, doing something complicated with Newt’s teakettle and some water. Or maybe it’s not that complicated. Newt is feeling exceptionally woozy exceptionally suddenly and decides that he should probably lay down sooner rather than later, but settles for sitting heavily in a kitchen chair. 

“Daisies. They’re the friendliest flower,” Newt says, sliding down in his chair. The daisies beam at him from their vase. “Don’t you think they’re the friendliest flower ever, dude?” 

“I do,” Hermann says, smiling down at him. He’s handsome when he smiles. He’s handsome when he’s scowling, too, but Newt likes his smile better. 

“When’d you break up?” Newt asks, and frowns when Hermann’s smile lessens. 

“A week or so ago,” Hermann says. 

Newt nods, and then slides off his chair, heading for bed. When he flops down into his blanket nest he sighs and says, sagely, “It’s breakup season. Everyone’s breaking up. I was broken up. With. And you. And you won’t believe this but I know a guy who broke up with someone in an elevator. Or after they got out of the elevator. It was stuck I think. Actually he’s who I was waiting for in the cafe when you saw me, and I was, uh--” 

“Charming,” Hermann supplies, only slightly sarcastically. 

Newt rolls over slightly and eyes him balefully. “I was not charming.” 

“You looked charming,” Hermann says, and then raises an eyebrow. “Tea?” 

“Please,” Newt says, and sneezes again. “I was not charming. I was upset and I was horrible. Thank you,” he says, and accepts a cup from Hermann, who sits delicately on the bed beside him. 

“I was horrible,” Hermann says, and sips his tea. 

“True,” Newt agrees, “but I have no excuse.” 

“But I have an excuse because I am a terrible person, and am entitled to be terrible, is that what you’re saying?” 

“No, I am not saying that,” Newt says, setting his tea cup down determinedly on his nightstand. “I am not saying that because that would be a horrible thing to say and I’m through saying horrible things. Even to you.” 

“You did it again,” Hermann smirks over the rim of his teacup. 

Newt rubs the heel of his palm into his forehead. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.” 

“I put you out of a job. A job you loved,” Hermann says. “You’re more than allowed to hate me for that.” 

“I don’t hate you--” 

“But you’ll never forgive me. Like Elizabeth.” 

“Who’s Elizabeth?” 

“Bennett. From  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . She was too proud--” 

Newt sits up. “I thought you hated  _ Pride and Prejudice. _ ” 

“--or she was too prejudiced, and Darcy was too proud? I can never remember.” Hermann looks over at him, and then says “It wasn’t personal--” 

“It was business?” Newt snorts, and flops back onto the bed. “What does that even mean? I’m sick of hearing it. All it means is it’s not personal to you. It was plenty personal to me. And what’s wrong with being personal anyway?” 

“Nothing,” Hermann says softly, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. 

“I like personal. Everything, whatever it is, should at least start personal. My head is killing me,” he informs Hermann. “I think I’m gonna go back to sleep soon. Why did you come here again? I forget.” 

“I wanted to be your friend,” Hermann says, and then winces at whatever he sees in Newt’s expression. “It’s alright if that’s not possible. I won’t hold it against you. Before I leave, could I ask you a personal question?” 

Newt squints, and then sighs. “Sure.” 

“What happened with you and then man you were waiting for? At the cafe?” 

“Nothing,” Newt says, feeling abruptly ten times as miserable as before. 

“But weren’t you deeply invested--” 

“Yes,” Newt groans into his duvet. “But it’s complicated. I don’t really -- this is gonna sound so stupid, but I don’t even know him, really. Or what he looks like or anything. We met over the internet.” 

Hermann smiles, a surprisingly knowing grin, and says “Stranger things have happened. Why don’t you try and meet him again? Or, no, I take that back--”

Newt pushes his elbow into Hermann’s hip halfheartedly. “I do not need advice from someone--” 

Hermann quickly, but surprisingly gently, places his hand over Newt’s mouth. “Let’s not finish that thought. You're through saying terrible things, even to me, yes?” 

Newt’s face heats. The cool softness of Hermann’s hand is distractingly pleasant against his chapped, fever-hot lips. He nods silently, and Hermann moves his hand. 

“I hope you feel better soon,” Hermann says, standing. “It would be a shame to miss Boston in the spring. Enjoy the daisies, Newton.” 

“I will. Thank you,” Newt says, somewhat mystified and not completely sure he hasn’t hallucinated the last half hour. 

Hermann gives him one last wave before he shuts the door, and Newt catches his silhouette as Hermann passes his window and disappears into Boston. 

Huh. 

_ To: MA032  _

_ From: STEMguy  _

_ Subject: Re: Ughhh _

_ Hey, I know I said I’d get back to you after I felt better, but you will not believe what just happened.  _

_ To: STEMguy  _

_ From: MA032  _

_ Subject: Re: Re: Ughhh  _

_ I am willing to believe a great deal -- still, you always manage to surprise me.  _

_ What’s happened now? _

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: I’ve been thinking..._

_...a dangerous pastime, I know -- but nevertheless. Thinking. This is not spur-of-the-moment, typically impulsive STEMguy. I have considered the considerations, I have mulled over everything that needs mulling, thought of what needs thinking, and I’m ready to say: I think we should meet._

_Before we met I missed you so bad, etc, etc, every platitude Carly Rae Jepsen can offer, until I hear from you next,_

_STEMguy_

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Re: I’ve been thinking…_

_Dearest STEMguy:_

_I agree -- we should meet. And we will meet. Unfortunately you’ve caught me at a rather inconvenient time. I’m in the middle of a project that needs a bit more work. Some tweaking, if you will. I hope you can forgive…_

\---------

...the delay. I assure you, for whatever it’s worth, that I would be more than pleased to meet you when circumstances allow. Truly yours,” Newt finishes, locking his phone and looking up at Hermann. Yeah, they’re kind of friends now? Sort of? They hang out and talk about work and tenure track, science books, dating -- pretty much everything there is that makes up both their lives. Even a month ago he’d have thought the probability of befriending jerk extraordinaire Hermann Gottlieb was a flat zero. Once the guy quit his job, though, and got back into research… well, he’s unexpectedly pleasant to be around. 

Hermann is too busy stirring sugar into his coffee to meet his eye. They’ve met up at Starbucks, despite Hermann’s ridiculous and kind of adorably evident disdain for the chain. It’s quiet, thankfully not very crowded, and the early spring sun streams pleasantly through the shop’s large windows.

“Well?” Newt asks, grinning a little when the guy looks away from his coffee. “What do you think?” 

“Hmm,” Hermann muses, tapping his coffee stirrer against his lips. “‘Tweaking’ a ‘project’? ‘When circumstances allow,’ have I got that right?” 

“That’s what he said.” 

Hermann nods thoughtfully. “I’d guess he’s married.” 

Newt nearly chokes on his Frappuccino® Blended Beverage. “What?” 

“Married,” Hermann repeats drily. “He’s dodging the question rather obviously, if you were to ask me. Which you have.” 

“That’s not possible!” Newt says, raising his voice a little too much to be really acceptable in a quiet Starbucks. 

“Why not?” 

“It just isn’t!” 

“Have you asked him?” Hermann asks. “If he’s married, that is. Directly.” 

Newt scoffs, and huffs, and scoffs again. “No,” he finally admits, crossing his arms, scowling at Hermann’s stupid little smirk. 

Said stupid little smirk edges into a full-blown knowing grin, and Newt, scandalized, snatches the last of Hermann’s bagel off his plate. 

“Newton!” Hermann says, stupid smirk dropping. “You couldn’t have asked if I was finished first?” 

“Payback for being a smug bastard about my email paramour,” Newt says around a disappointingly dry mouthful of bagel. 

“My apologies,” Hermann says, almost fondly, as Newt accidentally inhales some of his misappropriated bagel and breaks into a minor coughing fit. 

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Umm_

_Hey dude. How’s it going? Good, I hope. Things are pretty good on my end. Making friends, having fun, etc._

_Yep._

_Okay this is going nowhere._

_Sorry in advance, but I have kind of an awkward question. I only ask because, well, it seems like a thing I should maybe know, something I should have known already, maybe for a while, if this is what I think it is between the two of us. And, if it’s not too self-congratulatory to say so, I’m normally, historically, incredibly right about what it is that I think._

_Alright. Here goes._

_...are you married?_

_Mortified, embarrassed, but relieved to have asked, I’m your_

_\--STEMguy_

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Re: Umm_

_Dear STEMguy:_

_Am I married? This is the “awkward question” you have for me? Don’t you know me at all?_

_I can only assume you ask because your friends have suggested this is the reason we have yet to meet._

_Am I correct in thinking this?_

_(Much like you, I am, historically, usually correct about “what it is that I think”)._

_\--MA032_

“So he didn’t answer your question,” Hermann says, squinting against the midday sun. They’ve arranged to meet in a park this time, to enjoy one of the first truly warm spring days Boston’s given them this year. 

Newt collapses theatrically onto a nearby park bench. “He did though.” 

“Did not,” Hermann says, like a dick. 

“Did too. He totally got me. Knew exactly what I was up to, hit the nail right on the head, saw through all my, admittedly limited, artifice. That’s so like him.” 

“He still hasn’t explained why he won’t meet. Maybe he’s terribly unattractive,” Hermann says, joining Newt on the bench. 

Newt watches a few joggers run past. “I don’t even care about that, man.” 

“Maybe you don’t. Maybe he does. I know if it were me -- well.” Hermann clears his throat and leans back, looking away. “I know I’d be a bit of a disappointment.” 

“What?” Newt turns, crossing his legs so he can sit sideways and face Hermann’s profile. “Are you kidding me? You? Disappointing?” 

“Quite,” Hermann says, not really looking at anything, and definitely not looking at Newt. 

Newt rolls his eyes a little and leans in. “Look, dude, don’t get an ego off this, alright, but you are plenty attractive. Okay? Your hotness was, like, your one redeeming trait when you were killing my dream job. Before I knew who you were, by which I mean one of the G’s in the GGH acronym from hell, I kind of had--” Newt cuts off, deciding abruptly that he’d rather not own up to maybe, sometime in the past, definitely not now, probably, having a little, tiny, not-even-a-big-deal-at-all, nascent crush on the guy. 

“--whatever. Anyway. Believe it or not, plenty of people are attracted to tall, lean, broad-shouldered men in well-tailored suits.” 

Hermann flushes and looks down at his hands, which are folded neatly and very primly in his lap. “Ah. Well. The same to you.” 

“Almost none of those adjectives describe me, dude,” Newt says, turning ninety degrees to look out over the park again. The sun is just barely beginning to dip behind the tops of the trees, limning them in a cheery yellow. “But thanks anyway.” 

“Not -- I meant that you are also -- as you expressed to me --” Hermann sighs, briefly running a hand across his mouth. “You are, in my view, an attractive man.” 

“Aw, well, thanks buddy,” Newt says, feeling absurdly a little touched. “Look at us, just two attractive guys bein’ pals.” 

They look across the park together in silence for a few moments. 

Hermann stands up and offers him a hand. 

Newt, surprised, then surprised that he’s surprised, takes it. 

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Re: Nitpick_

_Dear MA032:_

_You are, tragically, incredibly right about how much my fictional giant robots would collapse under their own weight. Which sucks. Can’t we just have fun sci fi without worrying about things like alloy weight, power supply, logistics, etc? Am I aware that, in actuality, bipedal robots are incredibly stupid, and quadrupedal ‘bots are the future of the industry? Yes. Four legs good, two legs bad. I get it. But, consider, I kind of don’t care about realism, because, come on. Come on. Thank you for your input, I mean that genuinely, I would not have gotten nearly so far without you, you are really the only reason I have made it through this really sort of rough time in my life, infinite thank yous, but right now I need you to be a good DM and rule of cool me on this._

_… that said, find updated manuscript (!!!) attached._

_\--STEMguy_

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Re: Re: Nitpick_

_Dear STEMguy:_

_I agree thoroughly. Far too often, critics and writers alike forget the “fiction” in “science fiction.” I am more than happy to “rule of cool” (I assume this is a reference to Dungeons and Dragons? I was intrigued by the idea of it as a child, but never managed to try it -- I had too few friends and an overbearing father. Some things never change) your frankly delightful take on the giant-robots-meet-threat-to-humanity genre. I find it rings with the sort of hope and faith in the basic good of humanity that I believe we all could use more of these days. I can hardly wait for the day you see it published._

_And don’t thank me -- I am certain you could make it through anything on the strength of your resolve alone. Not that you should have to._

_Until next time,_

_\--MA032_

“What’s his username?” Hermann asks, rolling his eyes when Newt glares at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on messaging him, if that’s what’s got you concerned.” 

“Don’t steal my internet love interest,” Newt warns, looking over his grocery list. Yeah, they go grocery shopping together now. Like, friend-shopping. It’s totally a thing. Just guys being dudes. Dudes being pals. Buying green onions together. As a team. A friend-team. Very normal. “MA032,” he admits finally, picking up an avocado. “Do you think this is ripe?” 

Hermann takes the avocado and frowns. “Not ready yet, I’m afraid. MA032. Not very creative, is he?”

“You don’t know what it stands for,” Newt says, giving up on his avocado hunt. “It could be, like, really meaningful to him.” 

“Location and age,” Hermann suggests. “Massachusetts, thirty-two years old.” 

“He’d never do something that obvious and uninspired. What? What’s that look for?” Newt asks, as Hermann, looking oddly offended on the behalf of MA032, turns away to peruse the oranges. 

“Nothing,” Hermann says. “MA032. Thirty-two inches tall? Thirty-two ex-husbands. Thirty-two--” 

“--shelves of books in his house. Thirty-two piercings,” Newt interrupts, pushing his cart into, hell yes, the snack aisle. 

“Thirty-two dead bodies in his basement,” Hermann counters, following after him. “Thirty-two cats. Thirty-two arrest warrants.” 

“Thirty-two love letters for Newt,” Newt says, struggling to reach a pack of M&M’s on a high shelf. “Thirty-two thousand percent destined to be my life partner.” He jumps a little, but the bag remains stubbornly out of reach. He reaches up one more time, but before he can jump for it, Hermann’s chest is pressed against his back, a hand on his waist. 

“Uhh,” Newt says, trying to make sense of what’s just happened because, okay, maybe he’s a little bit, or a lot, into what’s happening here, but should it really be happening in a grocery store is his main concern -- 

“There you are,” Hermann says, abruptly de-invading his personal space and presenting him with the aforementioned bag of M&M’s. 

Right. 

Of course. 

“Thanks,” Newt says, definitely not thinking about how nice it felt to have his very platonic grocery shopping buddy pressed up against him. He’s got a virtual -- but still very real -- guy he’s devoted to already. No second thoughts allowed. “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat and pushing his cart farther down the aisle, “thirty-two whatever, I really couldn’t care less. I only care about the, uh, the boat thing.” 

“The what?” Hermann asks. 

“The boat thing. Doesn't your family own a boat? I don’t think I could ever be with somebody who, you know, owns a boat. Very rich person. Very unattractive.” 

“Oh,” Hermann says, walking a little slower. 

“So that’s that,” Newt says, half-joking, half trying to convince himself and failing a little. “You and I could never be together.” 

Hermann’s face goes extremely neutral. “Well, I don’t think I could ever date somebody who loves that ridiculous doughnut shop sludge you call coffee. Iced caramel macchiato? Despicable.” 

Newt stops the cart. “Um, how’d you know my coffee order?” 

Hermann pauses. “You must’ve mentioned it previously.” 

“I’m sure I didn’t,” Newt says slowly. “Because I thought you would make fun of me for it.” 

“Lucky guess, then,” Hermann says smoothly. “Tea with me Saturday? Noon?” 

“Alright,” Newt says, suspicious. 

_To: STEMguy_

_From: MA032_

_Subject: Belated reply_

_Dear STEMguy:_

_At long last -- and with my sincerest apologies for the substantial delay -- I believe I am prepared to meet with you. That is, if you would meet with me. I can never apologize enough for what happened the night of our first meeting. I can only hope that this time around proves less disappointing for you. If you are reluctant to meet after I have put it off for so long, I understand. Similarly, if you never wish to meet -- if you wish to continue our epistolary engagement indefinitely, and remain anonymous -- I understand. If we do meet, and, for any reason, you wish to break off our friendship -- I would understand._

_All this to say I do not want to pressure you in any way, in any direction. You mean more to me than I believe I am capable of fully expressing here. I am not sure when you became so dear to me, when it was that thoughts of you became not weekly or daily but rather hourly occurrences. It happened slowly, I believe, but completely, and now I cannot see a daisy without thinking of you._

_If, after all this time, you still wish to meet, I will be waiting for you this Saturday, 4 o’clock, at the east entrance to the Public Garden. I hear the Common is supposed to be lovely this time of year._

_Always yours,_

_MA032_

“Today?” Hermann asks. They’ve paused on the street outside Newt’s apartment, as Newt had been too full of nervous energy to sit still in the tea shop. After twenty minutes of Newt practically climbing the walls, Hermann had ordered them both chamomiles to go and dragged Newt on a walk.

“Today,” Newt confirms, tugging nervously on his tie. He’s decided to try and dress up a little to meet MA032, but he’s already nervously sweating through his button-up, his hair coming ungelled and sticking up in little tufts. “I’m really nervous.” 

“I can tell,” Hermann says. “You’re shivering.” 

“Shaking like a leaf,” Newt agrees. “I kind of feel like I’m gonna puke. Ugh. What if he hates me? What if he thinks I’m the most hideous guy he’s ever seen?” 

“I very much doubt he would think any of that,” Hermann says, a little too nicely for Newt to bear right now without either upchucking from nerves or crying his eyeliner off on the guy’s shoulder. 

“What if he’s not there?” Newt worries. “Or he is, but sees me, and then leaves? What if this has all been a really elaborate catfish? Or--” 

Hermann steps in and gives him the best one-armed hug he can manage without dropping his cane or spilling his travel cup of chamomile. “It’s going to be alright,” he says, and Newt just breathes in the guy’s warm cologne and tea smell and tries to stop shaking. 

“I am sure that everything will be fine,” Hermann repeats. “He seems to have planned this very particularly.” 

“I guess,” Newt says, finally stepping out of the hug, feeling marginally more stable. “I’m just so worried it won’t work out. Lots of people just don’t like me.” 

“I like you,” Hermann says, and then looks away quickly when Newt catches his eye. He scuffs a pristine dress shoe against the sidewalk, and then looks off into the distance, toward a horizon blocked by high-rise apartments. “Sometimes I wonder…” 

“What?” 

Hermann sighs, and turns to face Newt. “I sometimes think, if I hadn’t been with GGH, and you hadn’t been working for the museum, and we’d met --” 

“Don’t,” Newt says, feeling his heart clench. No second thoughts allowed. 

Hermann shakes his head and takes a half-step closer. “If we’d met, I would have agonized and worried and then I would have asked for your phone number. And I wouldn’t have been able to wait even twenty-four hours before I called you and asked if I could take you to dinner, or a movie, coffee, tea, a bookstore -- anything, really, as long as I would be with you. And if you were amenable to that I imagine I would have kept asking you to anything and everything, in sickness and in health, as long as we both should live.” 

“Hermann…” Newt says, heart sinking. Of course he’s thought about it. But he’s got-- it’s too late--

“We never would have had to fight like we did,” Hermann says. 

Newt nods silently, blinking hard. 

“We could’ve had normal fights. Like where to store our tea boxes.” 

“Who fights over that?” Newt says, not sure if he’s laughing or crying. 

“Some people. Not us,” Hermann says, looking away. “Never us.” 

“Never us.” 

For a long moment Hermann stares at the invisible horizon. “If only.” 

“I’ve got to go,” Newt says, gesturing to his apartment, but not really walking away like he should be. 

“Let me ask you one last thing,” Hermann says, turning back to him. “If you can forgive this man for standing you up -- for leaving you alone in that cafe for hours, for not telling you why he did what he did -- could you ever forgive me?” 

Newt looks at him in silence, blinking back tears. 

“I wish you could,” Hermann says quietly, looking away. 

“I really have to go,” Newt chokes out. 

Hermann nods, and turns away. “You don’t want to be late.” 

_To: MA032_

_From: STEMguy_

_Subject: Re: Belated Reply_

_Dear MA032:_

_I’ll be there. See you soon._

_\--STEMguy_

Newt hurries up the steps of the subway station and into the pleasant warmth of the late spring afternoon. The trees are budding with green, birds are singing, and the sun casts everything in a gorgeous golden glow. He’s changed back into a more typically Newtonian set of clothes and washed the gel out of his hair, figuring he may as well be comfortable and look like himself. 

He double-checks MA032’s email. Yep. It’s four o’clock, it’s Saturday, and he’ll be at the east entrance to the Boston Public Garden as soon as he turns the corner. 

He stops just before he rounds the turn in the sidewalk. He’s hidden by a row of topiary, tulips in fiery orange and yellow blooming at their bases, out of the line of sight of the east gate. He takes a few deep, calming breaths, focusing on the fresh spring air, the sound of water from the nearby lake, the subtle rumble of a train passing by under his feet -- and then turns the corner. 

He walks slowly towards the entrance of the park, a lovely wrought iron gate surrounded by flowers just beginning to bloom. Nobody seems to be waiting, and his heart sinks. He’s nearly past the gate, wondering if he should stay and wait or if he should just walk past, keep going until he hits a CVS that’ll sell him enough Ben & Jerry’s to drown his sorrows in, when a familiar voice calls out-- 

“STEMguy?” 

Newt turns and sees Hermann, framed in gold sunlight, standing just off to the side of the gate, with a bouquet of daisies in hand. 

His heart skips a beat. “Oh my God,” Newt says, actually crying for real this time. “Oh my God.” He jogs, and then runs, to meet Hermann, nearly overbalancing them both as he throws his arms around the guy, almost certainly crushing the flowers between their chests. 

“Don’t cry,” Hermann says, stuffy through his own teary-eyed smile, holding Newt’s face, pressing their foreheads together, the bouquet forgotten on the ground.

“I wanted it to be you,” Newt sniffles, bringing his hands up to gently cup Hermann’s wrists. He turns his head and presses a messy half-kiss into Hermann’s palm. “I wanted it to be you so badly.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long,” Hermann says, tilting Newt’s chin up and wiping away his tears as quickly as they fall. Newt laughs and leans into the sweetest and most inevitable kiss of his life, surrounded by flowers just beginning to bloom in the new Boston spring.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! Thanks for reading!! I'm AMRv_5 on Tumblr and twitter -- come say hi, give me prompts, or just vibe in pacific rim nation with me!! Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> I have been wanting to write a You've Got Mail AU for so long LMAO the romance... the slow burn... the enemies to friends to lovers of it all.....   
> I hope everyone enjoys!!! Come hang out with me in Pacific Rim hell I'm @AMRv_5 on twitter and @coloredpencilroses on tumblr!!   
> 💌💌💌💌💌


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